Thine Own Self
by ExecutiveHPFan
Summary: Mellie can do a lot of things on her own. This is not one of them, though. Pre-series AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Thine Own Self**

* * *

They are on their weekly date night at Fitz's favorite restaurant when Mellie decides to say what she's been tossing around in her head for the last two months. It is as good a moment as it's ever likely to be, considering that their work keeps them apart for most of the week, and this is the only place where Mellie has his full attention. Or as much of it as she is likely to receive, anyway.

She waits until they've each had sufficient time to peck at their entrees before setting down her fork and looking at her husband. "I'm thinking about giving up my seat," she says.

Fitz's eyes fly up to hers. "Mellie?"

God. She hasn't heard him say her name like that in years—surprise tinged at the very edges with raw hope, and of _course_ he'd assume that she meant she was thinking about leaving politics altogether. She realizes in this moment that she's miscalculated, terribly, and her mistake gives her no way to take the cruelty out of what she says next.

"To run for President."

She watches the change sweep over his face as the words sink in and it's like watching a thunderstorm form, uncertain of where it will strike or how much damage will be done. The ambient noise of the rest of the restaurant seems to fade in the wake of how loudly Mellie's heart is beating. She waits, twisting her fingers in her lap as Fitz recovers, expression becoming resigned.

"I have someone who can help," Fitz says, pointedly not looking at her. It is more than Mellie was expecting, but less than what she was hoping for.

Story of her life_._

Mellie shakes her head, aware of the thin ice she's treading on. "That's all right. Bobby and Kenneth will come back on board with me. They can handle my campaign."

"They handled your _senatorial_ campaign," Fitz responds absently, absorbed in the task of cutting his steak. "You need people who can handle running your bid for President."

"I want to do this on my own," she says, as gently as she possibly can.

"Just like always." She stiffens. If it had been just a little louder in the restaurant, Mellie probably wouldn't have heard it. "We've always shared our resources," Fitz continues, blue eyes darting up to meet hers briefly.

"That's because we always shared ambitions."

Fitz sighs. "Mellie, if you want to run for President, then run for President."

Mellie fingers the stem of her wineglass and lowers her eyes. "You know, I wasn't exactly expecting a ringing endorsement from you, Fitz, but—"

The knife and fork hit the plate with a discordant clang. The couple at the table next to them pause their conversation and glance curiously at Fitz, who is wiping his mouth with his napkin. Mellie offers them a polite, apologetic smile, already thinking of the PR disaster that will follow if the couple scrutinizes them too hard.

"Mellie," he says with obvious restraint, "if you want to run, then _run_. But use every resource you can. Trust me, you're going to need all the help you can get."

Mellie watches as her husband picks up his utensils again and sets about eating with singular focus. She thinks that he's never going to understand her _need_ to do this on her own, without his family connections or his highly-placed friends or the political favors he and his father have earned over years in the game.

But she knows that she has a year of battles ahead of her, and compared the ones coming, this one seems cosmetic and ridiculously prideful. It isn't the first concession she's had to make in her political career and it won't be the last. And it _certainly_ isn't the first she's made for her marriage.

Mellie watches Fitz eat, her own appetite completely gone. "Call your friend, then. I'd like to meet with him next week if possible."

Fitz nods without even looking up from his food. Mellie realizes that he is the first American whose vote she's lost.

* * *

One doesn't spend years embroiled in Washington politics without hearing the name 'Cyrus Beene' at least once. Mellie hasn't met him before, but his reputation is notorious enough. Cyrus is hailed as shrewd, scrupulous and endlessly pragmatic. If politics is a spider web, then Cyrus is the tarantula, spinning intricate patterns that span the country from ocean to ocean and ensnare everyone who crosses his path. He is the one people pay their political debts back to; he has favors owed to him from places high and low and a vast store of resources at his disposal. Two former Presidents and dozens of legislators, judges, and lawyers owe their careers to him. It's said that his aptitude at political intrigue is dwarfed only by his ruthlessness.

So it strikes Mellie as sort of comical that he and Fitz are so well acquainted. If Cyrus is all that legend says he is, then Fitz is his complete antithesis. She knows there is a story there, between Cyrus and her husband—one of many untold secrets that have festered between her and Fitz over the last ten years. She commits the question to memory; she will find out another day.

Fitz is, as always, a man of his word and at three o'clock on Monday afternoon, Cyrus Beene is shaking Mellie's hand, looking her up and down. There is a sort of quizzical air about him as he and Mellie size each other up behind polite smiles and perfunctory pleasantries. Mellie watches as Cyrus and Fitz spend a minute catching up, Cyrus asking after Fitz's career with unconcealed zeal and Mellie wonders if he wouldn't rather be planning Fitz's bid for the office over hers.

Need for idle chit-chat abated, Cyrus nods at them both, motioning them to sit.

"We've got our work cut out for us," Cyrus says as they settle into their chairs. Fitz elects to take up on a lone chair situated between her and Cyrus in lieu of joining Mellie on the couch; neutral ground to run interference. Fitz always was a good tactician. Cyrus looks between them and it isn't lost on Mellie that he notices their divide, too.

"We do," she agrees, and it is strange for her to say _we_ instead of _I_.

"Do you know why you want to be President?" Mellie arches an eyebrow, because that isn't condescending at _all_. Cyrus holds up a hand. "I ask every candidate that. You'd be surprised how many people don't truly know why they're running, and the campaign trail is no place for someone to try and find themselves."

Mellie considers Cyrus for a moment, then inclines her head. "I want to be President because I'd be good at it, and good for the country."

Cyrus nods and launches into another question, then another. What is her goal were she to get into office? What issues are important to her? He probes a bit at her views, inquiring after her thoughts on foreign policy, healthcare and education. Mellie answers each question concisely, looking for any sign of approval or disapproval from Cyrus, but he keeps his expression controlled and his voice even. He plays the game well.

He apparently gets the information he needs, because he sighs and leans back in his chair after a while.

"I've looked over your voting record for the past two years. There are a few little sore spots that might give us some trouble with the far right. The biggest hurdle, of course, is going to be your gender." Cyrus's eyes flick towards Fitz. "This isn't going to be easy at all, Senator."

Mellie smiles tightly. "I've been in politics for almost twenty years, Mr. Beene. I'm aware of just how much of a hindrance my gender is."

The look Cyrus gives her is a blank one, and again he glances at Fitz, who himself looks a hair's breath away from shrugging. "I…meant no offense, Senator Grant."

"Of course. Go on, Mr. Beene."

"I've had my ear to the ground on who the left will be running. Monahan and Restin are going to give us the most trouble—they're well-known and well-liked, and they have the best chance of catching the undecided voters."

"Moderates always do," Mellie responds.

"Moderate liberals," Cyrus corrects. "Moderate isn't moderate when you're on the right. It translates to 'lukewarm' and 'flip-flop'. The easiest way might be going the Independent route instead of trying to run as a Republican."

"I _am_ a Republican," she argues.

"You're a _California_ Republican—that's conservative lite," Cyrus adds flatly. "You and your husband are political unicorns. You would've been laughed out of the party if you ran center-right in the deep south and Midwest. Your stance on social issues, on religion, on the environment—you flirt with the left."

In the silence following _that_, Mellie is certain that Fitz makes an amused little sound. As if any of this is remotely fucking funny.

"My political viewpoints and party affiliation aren't subject to alteration," Mellie says curtly.

"If you want to run this ticket red, you're going to have to be a little more flexible—"

"And I'm not sure I appreciate you denoting my centrism as 'flirting' with the left."

Cyrus blinks at that, and any pretense of cordiality fades from his face. "I'm sorry, I was trying to put it nicely. Let me say it another way," he suggests, leaning forward and looking her in the eye, gaze steely hard. "When it comes to your chances to appeal to the far right, you have, quite thoroughly, fucked yourself."

In her periphery, she can register Fitz shifting in his chair. Mellie smiles, baring perfect white teeth and _this_ is so much better. "Have I?"

"The Presidential bid isn't a sweet little senatorial gig where your connections and your money and your cute little quips and puns can slide you into home base. People don't come out and vote for their Congressmen and women because the average American doesn't care who represents their state. You run on a national level and you're going to be scrutinized hard by the voters you can disregard during the midterms. This bipartisan, moderate schtick of compromise and negotiation and kumbaya political-togetherness, adorable though it might be—and you two really are just _adorable_ with it," Cyrus adds, eyes flitting to Fitz, "—isn't going to get you squat from the ultra-conservatives in this country. Trying to win the Presidency as a junior senator Republican centrist without an integral part of your own base is like trying to run a marathon with your ankles tied together. In addition to that, you're a woman barely in your forties; you have two school-aged children and are married to a man whose family legacy should have put him on a superhighway to the Oval Office. People won't be quick to forget that, Senator Grant."

Cyrus's words burn like ice pressed against her skin. Mellie doesn't let her smile slip, not even for a second.

"People," she repeats, looking down her elegant nose at him, "or _you_, Mr. Beene?"

There is silence then. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Fitz glancing between them as though their back-and-forth was some sort of tense game of hot potato. Cyrus ends up blinking first. He stands and leaves the room without a backward look. Mellie watches him go and when the door closes, Fitz sighs and scrubs a hand over his face.

"Well, that went well."

"It did," Mellie says lightly, rising from her chair. "Particularly inspiring was the part where you said absolutely _nothing_."

"You wanted to do this on your own, remember?" Mellie stares at him, blood running hot in her veins. There are some days when she can't stand the sight of him. Fitz seems to realize the callousness of his response because he waves his hand as if he could brush the sting away. "You've never needed me to defend you."

_Not that you would, even if I did_. "I'm finding someone else."

"Cyrus is the best there is."

"I'll find better."

"Mellie." She turns to her husband to find that he is now surveying her with the same look Cyrus had not moments ago.

"I'm not going to employ someone to run my campaign if they don't respect me, Fitz."

"Cyrus respects you."

"No, he respects _you_," Mellie snaps. "He respects _your_ accomplishments and _your_ connections and _your_ family. If he respects me, it's as your wife and not as a politician in my own right."

Which is a fucking laugh and a half, considering Mellie is a far, far better politician than wife. Everyone thinks so, even her husband.

"You knew this wasn't going to be easy," Fitz says, like it's supposed to somehow soothe her frustration.

"Don't placate me."

"Mellie." Her name comes out terse. She turns and gives Fitz her full attention, trying to rein back her irritation. "Cyrus is your best chance for getting to the White House. Let me talk to him."

Fitz doesn't say it like a question, but Mellie knows it is, and it is the kindest thing he's offered her today. So she sighs and gives him a single, jerky nod.

Because abrasive and tactless though he might have been, Cyrus certainly wasn't wrong.

* * *

The next time Mellie sees Cyrus is nearly two weeks later. She has returned to Washington earlier than scheduled and is elbow-deep in economic legislation when her secretary tells her that her husband is on the phone.

"You landed," Mellie says by way of greeting once she picks up the receiver. "How was the flight?"

"Uneventful. What time is the benefit tonight?"

"Eight. You have plenty of time to rest before we go."

"I wish I could, but there are a couple of people I've been meaning to see regarding state funding." He pauses. "I could swing by the hill for an early lunch, though, if you've got the time."

Mellie looks at the drafts covering her desk and she sighs with genuine regret. "I'm afraid I'm chained to this office until five. It seems like I'm the only person on this hill that values financial frugality."

"Is that why I always pay for our meals?" Fitz drawls. The levity is unexpected, but not unwelcome. It's almost nice. "I spoke to Cyrus this morning before I got on the plane."

She pauses. "Oh?"

Fitz apparently hears the surprise in her tone. "I told you I'd talk to him."

"I know," Mellie says quickly. "What did he say?"

"He's here in the city for the next few days. He wants to know if we can meet with him tonight."

Mellie frowns. "The benefit—"

"I know, I told him. He said after is fine, doesn't matter how late. Apparently, he's got someone he wants us to meet."

"So…he still wants to help?"

"Yes," Fitz returns patiently.

That _is_ surprising. After their meeting and despite Fitz's agreeing to speak with him, Mellie had all but written Cyrus off. She'd called Ken and Bobby and had a few working lunches with them after she'd gotten back to the capitol, picked their brains and let them talk through some of the possibilities. They had told her pretty much all Cyrus had: that her gender was going to be an issue along with some of her moderate policies. Of course, they'd said it to her much more politely, but pretty words didn't do a damn thing to make the task at hand easier.

And Fitz had been right. Kenneth and Bobby are good, but they aren't as good as Cyrus Beene. To have him in her corner while she runs for the highest office in the land…a little lost dignity here and there from verbal dressings-down seems like a small price to pay for getting Mellie that much closer to the White House.

"Still there, Mel?" Fitz's voice brings her out of her thoughts.

"Yes. Sorry. It's just…I didn't think he'd want to after our meeting."

"Well, he does. And I didn't even have to grovel or twist his arm or threaten his family."

"Wonder of wonders," Mellie murmurs, then aims for some levity of her own. "Good thing you didn't have to threaten anybody. You're quite possibly the least intimidating man on the planet."

"I have it on good authority that the underlings in my office tremble as I pass by."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, dear."

Fitz snorts and there are several beats of silence before he speaks again. "You still want to go through with this?" Even through the phone, Mellie can tell he doesn't just mean another meeting with Cyrus.

"Yes," she says. "We should be done with the benefit by eleven or so. We can meet him after."

"All right." Fitz pauses. "He said you had spunk."

Mellie snorts. It's a start. "I'll call you when I'm on my way home."

"Don't work too hard," Fitz says before the line goes dead.

Mellie hangs up too. It is the first time in a long time they have gone through an entire conversation without it sparking an argument. She wonders why it couldn't always be that easy between her and Fitz. The only time there never seems to be any issue between them is when they speak on the phone. When there is distance between them.

The thought is unsettling, and Mellie pushes it aside in favor of the nearest stack of proposed budget cuts.

By eight o'clock, Mellie has poured herself into a blood-red Vera Wang and is grasping Fitz's arm as they schmooze their way through the Carlton Ballroom of the St. Regis. All of their issues aside, this is a place both she and Fitz shine: together, dressed to the nines, dancing to up-tempo renditions of Sinatra and Martin, surrounded by champagne flutes, caviar and all the prying eyes of Washington. Together, they are all jokes and grins and teasing looks. Together, before an audience, they are all that they aren't in private, in reality.

Mellie smiles and demurs any attempt from other party-goers to get her to discuss a potential Presidential bid. Eyes have been on her since September but she seems to be getting the questions more and more recently. Secrets are nearly impossible to keep in Washington but Mellie knows better than to say anything before she figures out what, if anything, will come concerning Cyrus.

As the benefit winds down, Mellie and Fitz say their goodbyes and make their way to Mellie's office on the hill. They arrive at quarter till eleven and in fifteen minutes precisely, there is a knock on the door.

Mellie braces herself as Cyrus enters. He greets her first, shaking her hand and complimenting her looks tonight. "Thanks for meeting me so late. I would've waited for a more reasonable time, but Liv's flying out to Reykjavík in a few hours and I wanted you to meet her before she leaves."

Mellie looks around and sure enough, behind Cyrus is a petite woman who looks five or so years younger than Mellie. Despite the hour, she looks crisp and awake in a snow-white pantsuit and black blouse.

"Fitz, Senator, this is Olivia Pope."

Olivia reaches out to shake Mellie's hand, giving her a quick once-over. "You want to run for President," she says in lieu of _hello_.

"I do."

"I've discussed your running with Olivia, Senator," Cyrus cuts in smoothly as she and Fitz shake hands.

Mellie glances between the woman and Cyrus, frowning. "I'm not quite sure I understand."

"I want to run your campaign, Senator," Cyrus says plainly. Mellie closes her mouth. "I want to run it and I run campaigns with the smartest, strongest people available to me. And Olivia is the best I've ever worked with."

Mellie nods and looks back at Olivia. She's sure she's never heard the woman's name before in her life. "So what is it you do, Miss Pope?"

"I'm a crisis manager," says Olivia, before adding, "I fix things."

Mellie arches an eyebrow. "In Reykjavík?"

Olivia's lips quirk. "I fix things for a lot of different people. Rest assured that if I work with you, I will be giving you my undivided attention."

In spite of herself, Mellie finds herself intrigued. She motions to the chairs behind her. "Let's talk, then."

Fitz and Mellie seat themselves on Mellie's loveseat while Cyrus moves to the office doors. Olivia, however, doesn't sit.

"Cardinal rule first," Olivia Pope announces when the doors are closed. "I require absolute honesty one hundred percent of the time. If I ask you a question, you answer it with nothing but the truth. Leave the political illusion, the bending the truth, the Clintoning of language for the American people you want to vote for you. With me, you give me nothing but honesty because I can't do my job without it. We clear?"

Mellie takes umbrage at Olivia's tone of voice; she can't help it. She should've known that any friend of Cyrus Beene's would have his mouth, but it's still surprising. And irritating.

Mellie stares at Olivia and Olivia stares right back, immovable and firm. Mellie takes Olivia in, standing there looking ready to turn on her heel and catch her plane to Iceland without a second thought if she doesn't get the answer she requires.

"Clear." Mellie's response is clipped.

"Good. If you give me honesty, I'll give you the White House. Now," she says as she lowers herself into the chair that Cyrus is standing behind. "I have a few questions before we start."

She has more than a few, and they are nothing like Cyrus's. They range from the invasive irrelevant to the borderline offensive. Where Cyrus questioned her ambitions, her motives, her goals and her focus, Olivia asks about Mellie's past, how she and Fitz met, their families, their early days in Washington. She then asks if either of them have ever broken the law, if they have friends or family members who have broken the law.

Then, she crosses the line in the sand with her final query. "Tell me about your marriage."

And Mellie knows, when neither she nor Fitz respond immediately, that Olivia has them all figured out. Mellie, who has stood in Congress and been shouted at by fellow senators, who has shared a stage with all the movers and shakers in Washington, who has endured insults and mudslinging from pundits on both side of the aisle and always had a sharp response burning on the tip of her tongue, finds herself completely speechless.

Their silence is more damning than anything they could say in defense. Olivia nods. "So in addition to being a woman of child-bearing years with two young kids, you and the governor have marital problems," she says quite lightly, glancing between them. In the silence that follows, Olivia gives them a flippant smile. "What—becoming the first woman President wasn't hard enough on its own? You felt the need to raise the stakes a little by throwing a rocky marriage into the pot, too?"

Mellie bristles.

"Olivia," Cyrus chides.

"Any problems that we have in our marriage can't be solved in a matter of weeks, Miss Pope," Fitz adds in the aggravated tone of voice that Mellie has come to know so well.

"Good thing I'm not a marriage counselor then, Governor Grant." Olivia returns her attention to Mellie. "Running for Presidency is going to put a magnifying glass the size of Saturn over your family, Senator. And that means everything—_everything_—has to appear to be absolutely perfect. You both need to be ready for that. Are you?" she asks with a tilt of her head.

"I am," she says. Mellie looks over at Fitz. His eyes are fixed to Olivia, fist pressed against his mouth.

"Governor?" Olivia prompts.

Fitz's posture loosens. "Yes," he says, inclining his head.

Olivia leans back in her chair with a nod. "Good. Let's get started."

* * *

**A/N: **AUs seem to be all the rage now. Thanks for reading; please R&R!


	2. Chapter 2

Seven days after meeting with Cyrus and Olivia, Mellie formally announces her intent to run for President. She gives her speech in Sacramento to a crowd of almost a thousand people who cheer her on and chant her name, and it is one of the most gratifying moments she's ever had in her career. She exits the stage with every cell in her body buzzing from the enthusiastic reception and a smile that she can't suppress.

Cyrus apparently notices and decides to suppress it for her. "Stop it. You haven't won anything yet."

Mellie shoots him an incredulous look. "Yes, you're right. After I've spent almost two decades of dedicating myself to this, working and sacrificing trying to get to this point in my political career, how _dare_ I enjoy it? Just take me out back and shoot me; end it now."

"Actually, Senator," Cyrus says blithely, "you go ahead and savor this moment, because that back there was the easiest thing you'll do for the next twelve months."

"You're in a mighty fine snit," Fitz remarks as they and a small security detail head to the building's parking garage. "I thought Mellie did great."

Cyrus turns to face them, holding up a single finger in warning. "You do not get complacent. Either of you. Tomorrow is the beginning of your new lives and they're gonna be anything but easy. Don't forget it."

"I don't think there's any danger of that," Mellie replies, barely resisting the urge to roll her eyes as she climbs into the range rover.

Mellie's speech headlines the politics segments of all the news channels the next morning. She listens to the anchors and pundits as she dresses and brushes her teeth, ears peeled for any indication on how the road forward will look. The stations take it upon themselves to run miniature biographies on her and by virtue, Fitz, giving some background on their histories and policies. The PR is good, and it helps to set the stage for introducing herself to America as a whole.

When Mellie comes downstairs, Cyrus is in the living room, but that's nothing new. Until a more permanent venue for her campaign headquarters is arranged, they've taken to working out of her living room, which Cyrus has converted into quite the little operations base over the past few days. Mellie has gotten used to coming downstairs to find Cyrus Beene pacing around the house, negotiating—or arguing—on the phone.

But this morning, he isn't alone. There are three other people with him: two women and one man. All of whom jump to their feet when Mellie enters the room.

One of the women, a young blonde girl with freckles scattered across her crooked nose steps forward with a brilliant, toothy grin and holds out her hand. "Senator Grant! It's a pleasure to meet you, a real pleasure."

Mellie shakes her hand hesitantly, looking around to Cyrus who is, as usual, on his cell. Arguing. "Mr. Beene…?"

Cyrus turns and pauses his tirade long enough to take in the situation and wave his hand. "Underlings."

"I'm Danielle." Mellie returns her attention to the blond, who looks not a jot dejected at Cyrus's cool dismissal. "This is Lucas and Bianca."

Mellie shakes each of their hands in turn. "Nice to meet all of you. You're here to help with the campaign, I take it?"

"Yes, ma'am! And happy to help," Danielle chirps.

Danielle is far too bubbly for eight AM pre-coffee. Mellie thinks she may have to kill her. "Well…good," she finishes articulately, eyeing the three of them and their eager faces. "When did Cyrus hire you?"

The three of them exchange looks with each other before Lucas says, "Mr. Beene didn't hire us. Miss Pope did."

Before Mellie can respond, her house phone rings. Danielle straightens. "Would you like me to get that for you, Senator?"

"That's all right. Just…go back to whatever it is you were doing," Mellie says, moving towards the end table. She's able to resist cringing when Danielle grins and nods like a puppy dog, but it's a near thing.

"Will someone please answer the damn phone?" Cyrus snaps, holding his cell away from his mouth. "Chambers can't hear me yelling at him with that in the background!"

Her house phone is in the middle of its fourth ring by the time Mellie picks it up. "Hello?"

"Good morning, Senator," comes Olivia Pope's voice after a slight delay. "I apologize for calling your house, but I couldn't get Cyrus on his cell."

"That's because he's using it to verbally castrate who I think is Sally Langston's campaign manager," Mellie hedges, watching Cyrus turn more and more red as he stalks around the living room like a bat.

"Good boy. I just wanted to confirm that your first staffers arrived."

"Oh they're here. And keen," she adds, watching Danielle's fingers as they fly across the keyboard of her laptop. "What exactly did you hire them to do?"

"I brought Bianca in for the creative team, mostly visual communications. Lucas is going to do some of the field work and Danielle is a media consultant. I've worked with each of them before; they're good people."

"I'll take your word for it."

"I've been cycling through the news channels. Your announcement has been well-received, almost unusually so. So it's important for you to not—"

"Get complacent, yes," Mellie interrupts without bothering to hide her exasperation. She wonders what she'll have to do to warrant heartfelt congratulations from Olivia and Cyrus.

"I've scheduled a couple of TV interviews for you—local California channels, nothing too fancy. I emailed you and Cyrus the itinerary. The questions you get will be simple, basic, but Danielle's gonna rehearse with you before you go on the air."

"I have given interviews before, you know," Mellie points out, chagrined.

"Different game, different rules," Olivia replies. "By the way, I think I've found us a place to set up our campaign headquarters in. I've sent the details to Cyrus and CCed you as well, just in case you wanted a look. Also, if there's anybody from your previous campaigns that you want on staff, make a list of their names for Cyrus."

Almost wistfully, Mellie thinks of Kenneth and Bobby, even though she knows that Cyrus would eat them both alive if he had half a chance. "Are you still in Iceland?" she inquires instead.

"Yes. I will be until the day after Christmas. Just in time for Iowa."

Mellie nods even though Olivia can't see her. She'd wondered how it would work, Olivia helping organize a campaign from a different country. She isn't exactly sure how Olivia and Cyrus divvy up the duties, but she does know that they're off and running. It's good enough for her.

"I want you to start thinking about your platform—key talking points, issues we're going to start to touch upon," Olivia continues. "And we need to get you out of California and out on the road."

"I thought starting out here might give us a hometown advantage."

"It would, but it's more important for you to distance yourself from your husband's legacy there. Carve out your own path. And the rest of the country needs to know who you are."

"_Son of a bitch_!" Mellie whips around to see Cyrus throwing his phone into the cushion of her sofa.

"I'm guessing that's Cyrus." Olivia sounds wry.

"You heard that?" she says into the phone, watching as Cyrus, grinding out choked curses between clenched teeth, stalks towards said sofa. He almost runs into Bianca, who squeaks and barely manages to sidestep him.

"I think people in Beijing heard it. Billy Chambers generally has that effect on people."

Cyrus is now sending a text, thumbs angrily bashing the keyboard of his Blackberry, muttering under his breath. Mellie lowers her voice when she speaks next. "Whatever place you've found for headquarters, close the deal. I can't have crazy men terrorizing my living space."

"Healthy attitude to have when you're trying to move into the White House," smarms Olivia. "Work on your platform. Email me your ideas. Try to keep Cyrus from swallowing his tongue."

Olivia hangs up and Mellie lowers the phone back into its stand. Cyrus has planted himself in the middle of Mellie's rather spacious couch while the three staffers have huddled together on the loveseat, laptops and all, giving Cyrus a wide berth. It would be funny if it weren't so damn sad.

Deciding coffee just isn't going to cut it this morning, Mellie sighs and takes up the armchair Fitz usually sits in. "That was Miss Pope on the phone."

"I hope she's enjoying her vacation on that glorified ice cube."

"I was under the impression that she was working."

"_I'm_ working," Cyrus mutters, still texting viciously. "This is work: politics, government, running the world. Olivia's idea of work is holding the hands of rich, privileged assholes while they whine about the trouble their own stupidity got them into. Don't get me wrong, she's good at what she does. The best. But her penchant for putting a band-aid on all the world's problems and her obsession with 'doing the right thing'," he adds snidely with actual finger quotes, "is holding her back. And it certainly has no place in politics."

Cyrus may treat cynicism like an Olympic sport, but Mellie can't disagree with him there. She's seen enough in her twenty years to know that if you aren't at least occasionally willing to get your hands dirty, to stretch your morals and push the envelope, you get nowhere fast. It's a damn shame, but it's the game. People like Olivia—and Fitz—are incredibly rare.

"If you disagree with her approach, why did you ask her to help?" Mellie inquires.

Cyrus pinches the bridge of his nose. "You ever heard that you attract more bees with honey rather than vinegar?"

"So Miss Pope is the honey and you're the vinegar."

"_I'm_ the three gallon tub of Raid," Cyrus replies dryly. "No matter how charmed or distracted they are, live bees can still sting you. I prefer my bees dead."

"How pleasant," Mellie drawls. She'd always thought that making allies out of enemies was the best tactic, although she wasn't above manipulating them within an inch of their life to get them to see her side of things.

"I asked her on because no matter her methods, she's the best," Cyrus repeats finally.

It's enough for Mellie. For now, at least. "She mentioned something about finding a possible place for our headquarters. She's sent emails."

Cyrus perks up at this. He leans forward and motions towards Danielle. "Laptop." Danielle willingly passes it over and Cyrus sets it on the coffee table in front of him while Mellie waits for the verdict.

Meanwhile, Danielle takes it upon herself to start cleaning up the room a bit, organizing all the printouts and gathering up the few crumpled pieces of paper on the table. When she reaches for a half-eaten bag of sunflower seeds, Cyrus's hand shoots out to catch her wrist before she can touch the package.

"Uh-uh. They're the only thing keeping me from setting this house on fire. Leave them be."

Danielle nods rapidly and distances herself from the bag. Mellie looks at it, then at Cyrus. "Sunflower seeds?"

"I took up chewing them when I quit smoking. My—the person I'm dating doesn't like cigarette smoke." Mellie arches an eyebrow, finding it a little hard to believe that Cyrus would change something about himself for the sake of keeping a relationship, but she lets it go. Cyrus's eyes fly across the screen. "Yeah, this looks good. Enough room, nice location, reasonable cost. Want to look it over?"

Mellie shakes her head. In truth, a circus tent would be superb as long as it isn't in her living room. "I trust your judgment, and Olivia's." Cyrus arches an eyebrow of his own. "She also said that it was time to think about ideas for a platform."

"I suppose it is. Well," Cyrus says, rubbing his hands together, "all right, then. Let's do some brainstorming."

Cyrus has done his homework; they retrace every key issue that Mellie has tackled over the course of her career, comb through policy decisions. He's nearly memorized her voting record, which he has no problem picking apart like a vulture attacking an animal carcass. Every suggestion Mellie makes Cyrus offers up a counter argument for. Issues that are most important to Mellie—fiscal policy and foreign policy—get sidelined almost immediately.

"We can't lead with any of this," Cyrus says, dropping his notepad onto the coffee table. "You've gone too far left on these issues."

"I need to stand out from the other Republican candidates, don't I?"

"You need to prove that you actually _are_ one of them first. Our message needs to be rooted in traditional conservatism."

"Traditional conservatism hasn't gotten the party anywhere in the last ten years," Mellie snaps. "We've stagnated. There's nothing new to us anymore. Meanwhile the Democrats race forward, change with the times and _progress_. Old conservatism is dying, Mr. Beene. We need to change."

"Change," Cyrus repeats, looking at her blankly.

"That message got me to the state house and then to the Senate!" argues Mellie. "Would party reform really be such a bad idea at this point?"

"Oh sweet Jesus," mutters Cyrus, running a hand over his face. "I'm living in Neverland."

"It could work." Cyrus peeks through his fingers to look at Danielle. The three staffers have been listening avidly for the last hour or so, but none of them have spoken until now. "It could," Danielle says a little more strongly, looking to Mellie. "We could sell it as…breathing new life into the party. We could transform Senator Grant into the face of change for the Republicans, catch the swing voters, maybe even entice a few Democrats."

Cyrus drops his hand. "None of this makes any difference if the party doesn't put her forward first."

"It will if we sell it right and catch enough attention," Bianca pipes up. "If we make your record work for us rather than against us, Senator."

Mellie nods, shifting her focus to Cyrus, who looks at the four of them like they're insane.

"Are you trying to be President, or trying to reform the Republican party?" Cyrus asks baldly. "Because only one is doable from where I'm sitting."

"Well, sit somewhere else," Mellie bites out. "I don't think the two are mutually exclusive."

"Of course you don't," Cyrus says under his breath. He sighs and leans forward, holding out his hands. "It isn't an…_unsound_ strategy," he settles on delicately. "But it's irrelevant unless we get the nomination. Right now, we are literally nobodies in the game so before we go reaching for the moon, you need to swallow your pride and wrap yourself up in a pretty red bow for the right."

As mid-morning draws on, Mellie's house phone begins to ring. Cyrus holds up a hand and stalls Mellie from rising. "Media snoops looking for a sound bite. You don't answer phones anymore," he says, flicking his fingers towards Danielle who jumps to.

"Grant for President," is the greeting she gives when she answers the phone, and it's the most surreal thing Mellie has ever heard. Danielle politely directs whoever it is on the phone to her office on Capitol Hill, where Cyrus has designated all campaign-related questions to go until their headquarters is set up. Mellie says a prayer for her secretary as Danielle hangs up the phone.

They break in the afternoon for a quick lunch of Thai food that Cyrus sends Lucas out to get for them, and then get right back to it. Ideas are suggested and then discarded with such a quickness that it makes Mellie dizzy. By four, Cyrus's bag of sunflower seeds is almost empty and Mellie thinks they have a decent enough outline for her platform: education reform. It's something she's fairly passionate about and her voting record supports it, and Cyrus is pleased as punch by the way it plays into her image as a parent with two young children.

Mellie feels like nothing more than a political soccer mom, but lets it go, because it is a solid plan and she's tired of arguing with Cyrus. She leaves the four of them to planning the execution and moves to the downstairs study to unwind, and continue her work on the Senate's latest budget draft.

At half past eight, a sound of a clearing throat makes Mellie look up. Fitz is hovering in the doorway, hands in his pockets.

"Do you know that there are three teenagers in our dining room sharing a bowl of Neapolitan ice cream and arguing about your hair?" Fitz asks, casually leaning against the door frame.

"They're old enough to vote," Mellie responds. When the rest of Fitz's statement catches up to her, she blinks. "My hair?"

"Something about t-shirt designs, I think. The blonde girl seemed to think it was too big. I'm gonna guess they're not you're people."

"Olivia Pope hired them."

"Is she back?"

"No, not until after the holidays. She's proficient, I'll give her that." And although Mellie had been a bit hesitant about her three new staffers, they've proven to be resourceful and highly intelligent over the course of the day. Danielle even held her own with Cyrus damn near yelling at her. Mellie's impressed, with their work and with Olivia's eye for support.

"She'd have to be for Cyrus to speak so highly of her." Fitz's eyes seem to shine in the lamplight. "Between the two of them, I think you actually have a chance at winning this thing."

The statement raises gooseflesh along Mellie's skin, but she isn't sure exactly why. She leans back from her desk and looks up at her husband. "I'm glad you called Cyrus," she says, hoping Fitz hears the implicit _thank you_ underneath her words. "Even though he's a tremendous pain the ass."

He offers her a lopsided smile and steps further into the room. "Your announcement was all I heard at work today. Everyone in the capitol is proud of you."

And Mellie lets herself pretend that that's his way of saying that he is, too. She rises from her chair and stretches, pulling out a kink in her back. "Dinner? There's leftover Thai. The kids could probably be persuaded to share some of their ice cream." Mellie thinks about Cyrus, then smiles. "There might even be some sunflower seeds left."

She laughs at the look Fitz gives her and for a moment, Mellie can almost make believe that she and Fitz are happy together again.

* * *

**A/N: **The sunflower seeds as a crutch for quitting smoking comes not from "Holes", but from personal experience. And I feel like Cyrus Beene has put away several cartons of Camels over the course of his life.

Thank you for your reviews; please keep them coming!


	3. Chapter 3

Olivia arrives the day after Christmas. The first thing she does after climbing off the plane is tour their brand new campaign headquarters, with Mellie and Cyrus in tow. The office space she and Cyrus have chosen is huge, far larger than Mellie would've thought necessary, but somehow, in the span of less than two weeks, every single corner of the room has been filled. Desks line the lobby, laden down with computers and telephones, printers and fax machines. Copiers are pressed tight against the walls, two of which have massive dry erase boards attached to them. In the back of the giant office space is a smaller set of rooms, designed for Mellie's personal use only.

It had been impressive the first time Mellie had accompanied Cyrus to see it. Today, with Olivia, it is even more so, because now the space is filled with people.

"Holy god," Mellie murmurs amidst the barrage of ringing telephones, taking in all the faces. There has to be at least fifty people here, maybe more. Two weeks ago, it had just been three of them in Mellie's living room.

"This is primarily Lucas's handiwork," Olivia comments as she leads Mellie through the neat rows of desks. "You need an army of volunteers, he's the man to call." Mellie makes a mental note to buy Lucas a beer. "We're going to take about a third of them with us when we're on the road, so fifteen or twenty, space permitting. A healthy mix of communications specialists, pollsters, media analysts," Olivia continues.

Mellie is only half-listening; a poster propped up on an easel has caught her attention. Her face is emblazoned on the board and directly underneath sits a single word in big, bold letters: _Progress_.

"Like it?" Olivia inquires, coming up to stand at her shoulder. "We don't have to go with that slogan. It's just one of many Bianca and her team have been tossing around."

Mellie picks out Bianca's mass of coal-black braids among the sea of faces. She has a telephone tucked into the nook of her neck and shoulder and is furiously taking notes by hand. When she notices Mellie, a smile splits her face and she wiggles a few fingers in her direction. Mellie, dumbfounded, manages a small wave back.

"What do you think, Senator?" She looks around to see Olivia standing there, hands clasped in front of her, expression open.

"It's…surreal. But good. Very good." She makes an astonished noise. "You did all of this from Iceland?"

"She had help," Cyrus pipes up with a flat look. Mellie quells the ridiculous urge to pat his head. He checks his watch. "Your tour bus is going to be here in a couple of hours. We're gonna hit the road tomorrow morning, six AM sharp."

"Iowa?"

"Iowa," Olivia confirms. "We have just over a week before the caucuses and there's a lot to do between now and then. TV and radio interviews, meet and greets and speeches." Olivia looks her up and down. "You ready for this?"

Mellie casts her eyes out to the staffers—_her_ staffers, talking into telephones, drawing up graphs and charts on jumbo-sized dry erase boards, printing out leaflets, typing away on laptops. She is imbued with confidence as she responds, "Absolutely."

* * *

The first few days on the trail are a mixture of exhilaration and pure exhaustion. Mellie's heard about politicians who are made for the campaign trail, who revel in the energy and the breakneck pace, the hand-shaking and photo-ops—the 'boots-on-the-ground' division of the game. She is _not_ one of those politicians. Oh, she's a great orator and there's something undeniably exciting about meeting the American people one-on-one, but it isn't her forte, not at all. Mellie likes the behind-the-scenes work, the strategizing and the planning. The brainwork stuff. Hoofing it from locale to locale, interview to interview, diner to diner…it's tedious.

By the end of the fourth day, the only thing holding Mellie together is coffee and Olivia Pope. Olivia runs a tight ship, keeps a set schedule, and everything rolls off the assembly line in an orderly, efficient fashion. Which is good, considering Mellie has only enough energy to focus on her role in the campaign.

The night before the caucus, Mellie barely manages to pour herself into bed before fatigue overtakes her.

And of course, this is the time Fitz decides to strike up a conversation. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Mellie responds, eyes drooping closed. "Perfect. Wonderful. Ready to conquer the world."

She's too tired to even summon up a scowl for the amused little chuckle he gives before turning out the light. It isn't as if Fitz has been idle these last few days; he goes where Mellie goes, shadows her every step, smiles and shakes hands and connects with the people. But it's different somehow, different from the way they used to work a room back in the capitol. Mellie will look up to find him on the opposite end of whatever room they're in now rather than by her side. And when he is by her side, it's…disconnectedly. Passively. Fitz seems unengaged when next to her, like just another campaign aide rather than her husband.

It is unusual. Mellie is too focused on presenting herself to the public to worry about this strange new divide between them, but there is a moment, during breakfast the morning of the caucus, that she looks up to find Olivia's eye glued to the both of them, intent and assessing.

That evening, she, Fitz, Olivia and Cyrus gather with the campaign roadies in Mellie's hotel suite to tally in the votes and watch the results unfold on CNN. Mellie keeps her eyes glued to the TV while Olivia spends most of the night on the phone, pacing back and forth and adjusting tallies on their travel-sized dry erase board.

Before the last votes are in, everyone in the room already knows the outcome. Had Mellie a predilection to the complacency Cyrus and Olivia warned her away from, her feelings would've been hurt by the results.

Cyrus speaks first, taking a breath and leaning back in his chair. "Well…we got whomped."

For getting only twelve percent of the vote in a two-person caucus, Mellie feels like _whomped_ is too polite.

"We knew it was coming," Olivia says, folding her arms over her chest. "We got started late. Sally Langston's been campaigning for practically a year."

"You know Chambers had nerve enough to offer us the VP slot on the phone? _Already_?" Cyrus snorts incredulously. "Pompous little weasel."

Olivia runs a finger over her lips. "If it were the other way around, though, I think it could work in our favor." She turns to Mellie. "We beat Senator Langston and bring her on as your running mate. With her on the ticket, it'll solidify us for the Republican base. She's a strong party player."

"She's also Satan incarnate," Cyrus adds dryly-not an inaccurate description, Mellie thinks.

"Is Sally really that bad?" Fitz asks.

"Oh, only if you value religious freedom. And sanity."

"Cyrus," Olivia admonishes.

Mellie waves her hand. "He's right. I've gone toe to toe with her a few times in the Senate. She's a political relic; her beliefs and policies are archaic." Quite frankly, Mellie can't stand her.

"Be that as it may, she's a heavy hitter," Olivia states, returning her focus to Mellie. "She could be really valuable. Just keep that in mind."

Mellie nods, and Cyrus huffs. "Yes, well. All of this is moot unless we actually win."

Sighing and straightening, Mellie looks to Olivia. "So what now, Miss Pope?"

"You were fairly well-received at all of the functions. We keep that up and push our way towards New Hampshire."

On the way east, Mellie's first TV ads hit the satellites. TV broadcasting is always the easiest and most efficient way to get your name to the people, but Mellie knows that all amounts to absolutely _dick_ if the people have no clue what she stands for. Despite the discouraging results in Iowa, the second week on the trail refreshes Mellie. She always had fought harder when she was pushed down; her speeches become a little more tenacious, her events a little more showy. There is a slight shift in the numbers that says they're picking up some ground, and that drives Mellie all that much harder. After the end of the second week, the exhaustion of campaigning isn't quite so acute, and the slight apprehension she'd felt stepping off the bus and into the arms of a new, unfamiliar town meeting begins to give a little.

However, the new distance between her and Fitz seems to grow wider with every passing day.

The last morning of their three-day stopover in New York, Mellie finds herself seeking out an audience with the woman pulling the strings. Even with two thirds of their staff back in Sacramento, the hotel's boardroom-turned-campaign-station is a veritable beehive of activity. The room has been transformed into a temporary base of operations, and there is Olivia in the thick of it all, commanding the flurry of people like she was born to do it.

Mellie approaches her. "Busy?" she asks.

"I've got Gallup polling today and a primary in New Hampshire the day after tomorrow. So no," she replies quirkily, leafing through a stack of folders.

"How are we looking for New Hampshire?"

"We aren't going to win it," Olivia reports, not sounding at all deterred. Mellie deflates. "But if we're lucky, we can pull off thirty percent of the vote. That gives us some solid ground to go forward to South Carolina with. Did you finish your speech?"

Mellie hands it to Olivia, who scans the first few pages before nodding. "Good, very good. I'm going to have Danielle look this over and touch it up; she'll get back to you with some edits."

Mellie nods and watches Olivia in silence for a moment. "What's next? After New Hampshire, I mean."

"Eleven days of hand-shaking and baby-kissing on our way south," Olivia replies. "This is where the real work comes in; this'll be the first glimpse the public will truly get of you. We need to introduce our platform. Luckily, your reputation as a senator is going to do a lot of our policy-work for us."

Olivia moves past Mellie towards the group she's assigned to the laptops. Mellie follows her. "Cyrus seemed to think my centrism was an obstacle."

"Cyrus is an eternal pessimist."

Mellie blinks. "You…don't want me to change some of my views?"

"They're _your_ views; if you want to run on them, we'll run on them," Olivia responds simply as she leans over a volunteer's chair. "Give me the preliminary numbers, Stacey."

Mellie watches Olivia's eyes fly across the screen as the young woman pulls up the requested report. "So how do we get the far right?" she asks when she finds her voice again.

"We completely revamp your image."

"Image," Mellie repeats. "You're talking about Fitz and me."

"Got it in one," Olivia says, reaching for a printout. "We pander to the family values crowd, show them how much you love and care about your husband and kids. If we can't win over the far right with your politics, we'll win them over with your image."

The plan has merit, but it's still exasperating, especially with Fitz's recent behavior. "I don't remember Hillary having this problem. Or Hutchinson. Or Warren."

"Hillary, Kay Bailey and Elizabeth all have something we can't exactly use," Olivia says, eyes fixed to the polling reports.

"And what's that?"

"Menopause." She's got Mellie there; politics is perhaps the only place where aged women have an advantage over the young. She looks up to find brown eyes on her. "You've been in politics for a long time, Senator. You have to know how this works."

"I know how it works." Mellie pauses. "Doesn't mean it stops being..."

"Discouraging?" Olivia prompts. "You're preaching to the converted." She moves down the table and reaches for a copy of the campaign stop schedule. "I think there's a permanent dent in the glass ceiling from how many times I've hit my head against it."

Mellie snorts. "So what's our game plan?"

"The message the opposition is pushing—even from your own party—is that a woman cannot do it all. You're going to be painted as a ruthless career-woman driven by a desire for power, that you are neglecting your children and your husband for your candidacy."

_Joy_. "The usual song and dance, then. So what do we do?"

Olivia flashes her a smile. "We prove them wrong."

* * *

"No," Fitz says tersely, rising from the armchair. "Absolutely not."

Mellie rolls her eyes. "Fitz—"

"Our own _kids_, Mellie? As pawns in your political game?" Fitz demands. "You're going to put Jerry and Karen on a silver platter for the press to take and run with? Are you out of your mind?"

"There won't be anything we don't allow," Mellie insists sharply, tone rising. Jesus, what did he think she was? "Our family is private and I believe we've made that very clear. This is just—"

"Diverting the bus for Jerry's soccer games and Karen's dance recitals? Taking every opportunity to prove to the world that you're not a heartless career-obsessed ice queen?"

And something about the way it just rolls off Fitz's tongue with such _ease_ sets Mellie off. "I'm sorry, were you above playing this game while running for governor? Because I seem to remember a parent-teacher conference or two we let slip to the press—"

"That isn't the same thing and you know it."

"Because less scrutiny is given to the father in the parental equation."

Fitz rounds on her. "Because you are shining a spotlight on our children's lives! It's bad enough that the damn press know as much as they do already, and you're here talking about making that peephole into our lives even bigger? This is low, Mellie, even for you."

The words sting and Mellie's own retort shrivels up in her throat, along with her breath. There are times when Mellie thinks that Fitz doesn't know her at all, and then moments like this come and she thinks he knows her _just_ well enough to hurt her.

"It's only going to get worse." Olivia's voice wafts up from behind them. They turn to see her leaning a hip against the chest of drawers in their room, arms folded. Mellie can't even summon the dignity to be embarrassed.

"And I don't have to ask whose idea this was," Fitz mutters, shifting his attention to Olivia. "My children are not going to be exploited in this, Presidency or no Presidency. I won't allow it."

Olivia surveys Fitz with a level look for a moment before turning her eyes to Mellie. She waits expectantly. The gesture is small and probably unconscious, but it is a monumental thing in that moment, and a gesture Mellie greatly appreciates.

"I'm not exploiting our children," Mellie says firmly, squaring her shoulders. "But I'm not going to hide from the fact that I'm a mother, either. There's too much we've missed over the years, between the Senate and the governor's seat, and if I have to cancel a cookout in Arkansas in order to watch Karen dance the Dying Swan, I will. And I will make sure everyone knows it, that everyone knows how important my children are to me, despite what the world—and _you_," she says harshly, giving Fitz a withering look, "might think."

"And in order for Senator Grant to be elected, Governor, the world has to see that," continues Olivia seamlessly. "They need to see the senator from all sides. Yes, of course there is a line that won't be crossed when it comes to your family but it won't hurt for the news to report that you're both attending extracurricular activities, or to see the senator with her children on the campaign trail. We're striving for perfection, remember?"

Mellie watches Fitz watching Olivia. Not for the first time, his face changes as he listens to Olivia speak. "Perfection," he repeats quietly.

Olivia nods. "From all sides. Which brings me to you two. Senator Grant told me about your 'date nights'," she continues, and here Fitz has the decency to look a touch embarrassed. "It's a good idea, and I want you two to keep it up."

"And you want it publicized," Fitz hedges tonelessly. "Cameras at dinner, shared games of golf, smiles and laughter."

"I _want_ a little less sarcasm and a little more sincerity," Olivia says sharply. The reprimand sends Fitz's eyebrows into his hairline. "This isn't reality television, Governor. People need to believe this if we're going to get Senator Grant into the White House."

"What did you have in mind?" Mellie asks.

Olivia folds her hands behind her back in a strangely militaristic gesture. "I cancelled both your events for the next two days."

Mellie blinks. Fitz makes a sound in his throat. "You cancelled _everything_?"

"Everything."

"The primary—"

"We aren't going to win," Olivia interjects matter-of-factly, oblivious to how Fitz's jaw has gone slack. Mellie smothers an amused smile. "We're focusing on South Carolina now."

"Miss Pope—"

"Two days," Olivia cuts in, looking back at Mellie, "won't make or break us. You and the governor need to take some time and get on the same page. You don't look at each other, you don't talk to each other, you don't touch each other."

"We talk," Fitz argues.

"Not to each other, you don't. I've watched nearly every appearance you both have made out together over the past few weeks and you might as well be strangers. People notice that. We need to give them an opportunity to warm up to you both as a couple. Believable, loving, _dedicated_ couple. Or we might as well just throw it in right now."

Olivia's chastising leaves both of them silent. She looks between them. "I'll give you two some time to yourselves."

And she takes her leave, as if that will somehow make the entire ordeal less uncomfortable.

Mellie looks in Fitz's direction and licks her lips. "When I told you I was thinking about running that night at dinner, you didn't say anything."

Fitz's eyes slide closed and he rubs his forehead. "And what did you want me to say, Mellie?"

"If you had a problem with my running, that was the moment to tell me."

"Maybe I thought it was an exercise in futility," Fitz counters dryly, looking her in the eye.

_Like our entire fucking marriage_. Mellie closes her eyes and draws in a deep breath. "You clearly have a problem with it, so let's talk about it. That _is_ what we're supposed to be doing." Fitz doesn't respond. A thought comes to Mellie, then. "Are you angry that I'm running, or angry that you're not?"

Silence follows that, still and dangerous, and Mellie's heart beats a little faster. Fitz turns and looks at her like the very strength of his glare could set her on fire. "You've got some kind of goddamn hubris, you know that?"

"All those times that colleagues mentioned it to you, or your father, you never said anything—never, not once. You didn't want to be President," Mellie argues.

"Oh, for god's sake, how would you even _know_?" Fitz demands, voice rising. "Did you ever ask me? You didn't even ask me if I wanted to run for the governor's seat again! You just assumed that I would step down to be by your side at the White House, that I'd give up my career for you!"

"Yes," Mellie says quietly. "Just like I gave up mine for you, once."

Fitz makes an disbelieving noise in his throat. "Just how long are you going to keep holding that over my head, like it's some kind of grand sacrifice you expect to be paid back for with interest?"

"Well, since sacrifice goes totally unacknowledged, maybe trying a little reciprocity for once wouldn't be such a bad thing," Mellie bites out.

"Oh, Saint Millicent the Martyr," Fitz groans, rolling his eyes—eyes that Mellie used to want to drown in. "Resigning from the state house and becoming a—a _trophy wife_ was something I never asked you to do, but you did it anyway. It was a decision _you_ made on your own, just like a million others you've made during the course of our marriage."

"You weren't complaining when you were reaping the benefits of said decision, were you?"

Fitz stops then, eyebrows knitting together. "Benefits? Our children are just _benefits _of your role in this political game?" Mellie's response dies on her lips and she closes her mouth. But it's far too late for that; a line has been crossed.

Fitz stares at her, sending ice into Mellie's veins. He takes one calculated step towards her and she fights the nearly overwhelming urge to step back. "You want to talk about the problem I have with all of this? This is it, Mellie. _This_, right here. You treat this family—this marriage—like it's a political alliance! We're essential to you during campaign seasons but unnecessary and a burden after you get elected. You'll trot us out for the press, for interviews and photo ops and you'll play it up for all it's worth, but the minute the spotlights go down, you couldn't care _less_." Fitz turns away from her like he can't bear looking at her anymore, bracing one hand on the mantle and the other on his hip. His head ducks and his shoulders heave with an almighty, exhausted sigh. "Is that all it ever was? Is that all _we_ ever were?"

Mellie's breath stutters. "You know that's not true."

Fitz doesn't move. "Do I?"

She stares at his back uncomprehendingly. In her mind's eye, she envisions twenty years ago, fifteen, ten and it is all a montage of smiles and hugs and laughter: the two of them huddled together under a blanket in an icy apartment in DC, holding Karen and then Jerry with tears in their eyes, waltzing at balls and fundraising galas and his weight above hers on beds, him kissing every inch of her skin and her arching her back and him pulling her to him after their passion was sated, his arm tight around her waist as if God Himself couldn't pull her away from him. Despite their situation now, her memories remain golden and bright undeniably _happy_.

It breaks her heart to think that he could remember them differently.

Fitz lets his hand drop from the mantle as he straightens and rolls his shoulders up, trying to shrug the defeat out of them. He turns to her slowly, an apology already etched into the careworn lines of his handsome face. Mellie is so very _tired_ of all of this.

Before he can even open his mouth, she is moving away from him.

"Good talk," she says swiftly, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you so much for your reviews! Keep 'em coming!


	4. Chapter 4

They receive thirty-two percent in New Hampshire. It is the first time since hitting the trail that Mellie has seen actual satisfaction from the staffers. As the results roll in the night of the primary, Mellie actually hears some of them whoop with joy as the newscasters announce the campaign's slow but steady ascent in the polls.

Despite not winning, it is Mellie's first real taste of victory. And it is marred by the fact that she and Fitz haven't spoken for three days. She plasters a smile on her face as she returns to her en-suite after giving her speech. Congratulations fly around the room from her bright-faced staffers; she endures the handshakes and hugs and ignores Olivia's too-knowing eyes as she calls it a night early, claiming exhaustion.

An hour or so later, she can feel the bed dip as Fitz slides in next to her. There is a slight pressure on her shoulder; Fitz's hand on her bare skin jolts her into full awareness, but she doesn't move to face him.

After a moment, the hand falls away and the light in the room is doused. Mellie lets out a small, silent breath and closes her eyes again.

Mellie wakes up ten minutes before her alarm goes off at six-thirty, feeling barely rested and zombie-like. She leaves Fitz asleep and rises to shower and dress for the day. By seven-fifteen, she is wearily pulling the door to her bedroom open.

Danielle is standing in her doorway, clipboard in one hand and a grin splitting her girlish features. "Morning!" she chirps. "I have the media coverage reports from last night in. I thought we could go over them during the rundown."

Mellie's eyes slide closed. She gives a small nod and steps forward. "Coffee."

"Of course, Senator! There's also bagels and muffins—I took the liberty of ordering since I'm the first here today. Your speech last night was brilliant, by the way! One of the most eloquent I've heard in my life. It barely needed any revision from me, it was just—"

Mellie claps a hand down on Danielle's shoulder (though she had seriously considered aiming for her throat). It is firm enough to startle the girl into silence. "_Coffee_," Mellie repeats, though she's far too tired to sound properly menacing.

Danielle's eyes widen and she takes a wise step back. "Of course, Senator. I'll get it for you myself."

Mellie lowers herself against the softest cushions on the couch in her suite as Danielle retreats to the kitchenette. Mellie counts it as a win.

The 'rundown', as Danielle and the other aides have taken to calling it, is the hour block between seven-thirty and eight-thirty when Olivia and Cyrus and the minions of their choosing come and feed Mellie and Fitz the day's itinerary, the latest polling stats, any changes or alterations that need to be tackled and tasks that have to be completed before the end of the business day. It is normally the quietest part of Mellie's day, and today it looks to be particularly quiet because when Olivia arrives at precisely half past seven, she is blessedly alone.

"Good morning," Olivia says as she strides into the room, looking impossibly fresh despite the fact that Mellie is sure Olivia got less sleep than she did. "Where's the governor?"

"I let him sleep." Olivia glances at the bedroom door, then looks back at Mellie. "Where's Cyrus?"

"He had an early morning meeting. He said he'll be here by eight," Olivia reports, taking a seat across from Mellie and firing up her Macbook.

"A meeting? About what?" Olivia doesn't respond, and Mellie makes a noise over the top of her coffee cup. "He didn't tell you, did he? His right hand woman? How very cloak-and-dagger."

Olivia shoots Mellie a tedious look from over her laptop. "You did well last night," she says instead of rising to the bait.

"Not well enough," Mellie mutters, lowering her cup. "We're dragging."

That gets Olivia to look up again. "In what way?"

"We're moving too slowly. We have to fight for every single one of those polling points. We aren't being aggressive enough."

Olivia surveys her in silence for a moment before lowering the top of her laptop just a bit. "There was a lot of press covering the primary yesterday. Lots of photos—hundreds, from newspapers, websites, magazines. I think I've looked at about two thirds of them in the past three hours or so." Olivia pauses. "And I have yet to see a single one of you and the governor together."

And oh, Mellie is _not_ in the mood for this today. "Maybe you should look at them all, then," she says quietly, raising her cup to her lips.

Olivia's eyes narrow. Mellie doesn't look away. She watches as Olivia twists in her chair to face Danielle. "Head back down the boardroom, Dany. I'll go over the media numbers with the senator, all right?" Olivia waits until Danielle leaves the room before she speaks again. "I asked you and the governor to get on the same page, Senator."

"You didn't honestly think two days were going to magically solve everything, did you?"

"Those were important events I cancelled on your behalves. I thought that two days would be enough to make some marginal improvement. Instead, you and the governor have taken three giant steps backwards. Between the two of you, you've made things even worse. You have not only wasted valuable time, you've actually done more harm than good."

Mellie sits up and puts her cup on the table between them. "Your strategy of getting the far right with my image. Discard it," she intones, watching Olivia's eyes widen. "Give me a better angle to play."

Olivia's eyes flutter and when she speaks again, her tone is a little calmer. "I know that you don't want to make your family the focus of your campaign, but Senator…you cannot win this election without them. Without him. You _have_ to be on the same page."

"Let's go to plan B."

"This is our plan B," Olivia says flatly. "_This_ is our backup because your politics—"

"Are all that should matter," Mellie interrupts. "Give me another idea."

"Ignoring a problem instead of dealing with it isn't going to make it go away," Olivia says. She arches an eyebrow. "And it's a questionable attitude for a Presidential candidate to have, don't you think?"

Mellie's cheeks flare with heat, but she holds onto her smile like a vice. "If you don't have any more ideas for me, maybe I'll have to find someone better for the job, Miss Pope."

Olivia studies her for a long moment. It is a wager, an invisible poker game that Mellie has become far too good at over the last ten years. It's a game she's used to winning, but Olivia's eyes are hard and unyielding and Mellie's heartbeat stutters in her chest.

"My cardinal rule of honesty goes both ways," Olivia says finally. "You cannot win this election alone, Senator Grant. You can distract them from your marriage, you can run interference and misdirect and cover it up, but people are going to find out and your campaign will die. That is the truth." Then, she inclines her chin. "And there is no one better for the job, Senator. But if you want to look, by all means…feel free."

Olivia shifts on the chair, reaching for her bag and Mellie's heart leaps into her throat in spite of herself; if Olivia walks now, Grant for President is dead. But Olivia merely twists to extract a slim, black folder from her bag which she sets onto the table and nudges towards Mellie.

"What is this?" she asks.

"Another angle," Olivia responds brusquely, and Mellie knows her well enough now to know that she is irritated.

Curiously, Mellie reaches for the folder and flips it open. Her eyes briefly scan the top page before flying up to Olivia. "This is…?"

"Political capital," Olivia answers, crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap. "Cyrus always has some for every candidate he works for. This is what we have for you."

Mellie, swallowing as surreptitiously as she can, returns her eyes to the folder. She reads through the first page, then the second one. The information she finds has her growing more and more unsettled the more she reads.

"Pick anything from out of that folder and throw it at your opponents and I guarantee you'll be able to distract the country from your marriage for at least half a year." Mellie looks back up at Olivia, who licks her lips. "I have a million ideas, Senator Grant. But I don't offer them if I don't think they will help, and these won't. They'll provide a smokescreen, but they won't fix the problem. You and your husband have got to get on the same page."

Mellie sets the folder down and sighs, smoothing a few wisps of hair back from her eyes. "I…apologize," she says quietly, because she _is_ sorry. She isn't even sure why she's antagonizing Olivia. Olivia, who is the pulse of this entire operation. "I'm frustrated," she offers, knowing that it's a pitiful excuse.

Olivia looks at her in silence for a moment longer before she nods. "We're making progress. It's slow, but it's progress."

"And it could be sped along if Fitz and I got our act together," Mellie surmises with a sigh. Easier said than done.

As if on cue, the bedroom door behind Mellie opens and Fitz comes striding out, straightening his tie. "I'm sorry I overslept, I—oh," he says, stopping when he sees that the room is empty. "Did I miss the rundown?"

Olivia shakes her head. "I gave the staff the morning off. They're nursing Guinness Records-worthy hangovers."

"Not Danielle," Mellie notes, reaching for the clipboard she passed to Olivia before vacating.

"Danielle's a sorceress." Olivia rises and brushes the front of her pants down. "Coffee, Governor?"

"Yes, thank you." Mellie ignores the depression in the sofa as Fitz sits down next to her, scanning the media summaries. "You didn't wake me," he murmurs.

"You needed the sleep."

"I don't like missing the rundown," he replies quietly, sternly. Mellie thinks that's rich, considering he does _fuck all_ during the hour since their argument. In the past few days, Fitz hasn't offered anything remotely useful to the morning proceedings; he sits and sulks while Cyrus and Olivia try to plan his and Mellie's future.

"Good thing you didn't miss anything, then," Mellie says before raising her voice. "MSNBC seemed to like my speech more than Fox."

"Murdoch will come around after we get Sally Langston out of the way," Olivia says from the kitchenette. A moment later, she appears with two more mugs of coffee, one of which she hands Fitz. Mellie raises her eyes to watch the two of them for a few heartbeats before she returns her attention to the clipboard. "That's good news, regardless. That the left is giving you some praise bodes well for us going forward."

A sound at the front door has all three of them raising their heads. The doorknob jiggles, and then the little lock display blinks green as the door comes flying open. Cyrus whirls into the room like a hurricane, brandishing a few sheets of paper. "Bless us, o Lord, for it's happened. It's _finally_ happened!"

"Cyrus?" Olivia asks slowly, eyebrows raised.

He waves the papers at her, and she begins reading aloud. "'When asked her feelings about her only opposition in the party, junior Senator Mellie Grant, Senator Langston is quoted as saying, 'For a woman who professes to place such a high premium on the importance of our children's education, Senator Grant seems perfectly willing to compromise the well-being of her very own kids to further her own career goals. I, at least, had the decency to wait until my youngest daughter was fully grown before selfishly pursuing my own ambitions.'" Olivia's eyes flash up to Cyrus's. "_Holy_—"

"I know!" Cyrus says, practically bouncing on his heels. "She didn't just insert her foot into her mouth, she goddamn _choked_ on it!"

"The left, the women's groups, every working mom in America…" Olivia trails, awe lacing her tone. She hands the transcript to Mellie.

"They're going to _stone_ her," Cyrus growls with nothing but approval. "Maybe I should call Billy and offer him a job."

"You got your smokescreen," Olivia says over her head. "This gives us a bit more time to work on our problem. This is good, Senator."

"Not good enough," Mellie says summarily, setting the papers aside.

"What do you mean?"

Mellie's eyes flick to Olivia. "I want to retaliate."

Olivia and Cyrus exchange a look before looking at her. "No," they say in unison and just to further annoy her, Cyrus adds, "Not a good idea, Senator Grant."

"Why not?"

"Sally Langston picked up a loaded nine millimeter and shot herself in the foot. She's on the floor in a pool of her own blood screaming in agony. One does not then go up to her, grab the same gun and pump a round or two into her belly for good measure," Cyrus says.

"Really," says Mellie conversationally, "because that seems like exactly the sort of thing you'd do, Mr. Beene. Three gallon tub of Raid, remember?"

"It will look petty," Olivia continues as if they had been speaking with the same voice. "Going after her now is the definition of overkill. Let the party crucify her for this; you focus on your own campaign."

But Mellie is reaching for the folder of _other angles_. "If she wants to talk about the welfare of our children, let her explain her condoning her teenage daughter's abortion."

Olivia straightens in surprise. Cyrus's face goes blank and he glances at Olivia. "Ah, so you showed her our arsenal."

"Abortion?" Fitz asks, looking around.

"She fired first, so let's show her our guns," Mellie says lightly, holding the folder up to Cyrus. "Sally questioned the well-being of my kids and my own job as a parent. I want to respond."

"Don't make this personal," Olivia warns.

"Sally beat me to it. I'll be _damned_-"

"Then you'll be damned," Cyrus yells in exasperation. "People are going to say things far worse than this about you and your family, Senator. Tighten your bra straps and _deal_ with it."

"Cyrus," Olivia snaps, cuffing him on the shoulder.

"What," Mellie begins, anger rising, "is the point of having an arsenal if I don't use it?"

"_What_ arsenal?" Fitz demands. Mellie sighs and shoves the folder in his lap before returning her attention to Cyrus and Olivia.

"Because it's a _waste_," Cyrus replies harshly. "If you want to respond, we'll respond. But not with anything out of there. We should save our capital for a more appropriate situation, when a response of that magnitude is required."

"And there's different ways to use that information," Olivia adds. "We don't necessarily have to release it to the media. Just make certain Sally knows we have it."

"Blackmail." All eyes turn to Fitz, whose eyes are drawing over the precious collateral tucked neatly inside Cyrus's severe black folder. He looks up, judgment clear in his eyes. "You're talking about blackmail."

"I'm talking about a safety net," Olivia says.

"Call it whatever you want, this is blackmail." Fitz closes the folder with a quick flick of his wrist, turning his attention to Mellie. "You're going to use this against Sally Langston?"

Mellie waits, just to see if Cyrus and Olivia will answer for her. She is pleasantly surprised when they don't, and she inclines her head to Fitz. "If I have to."

Fitz looks around the room, eyes trailing each of them as though he's looking at strangers. "Is this really necessary?"

Cyrus gives a little half shrug. "Maybe, maybe not, but-"

"It's important to have all options open to us," Olivia continues and Mellie really wishes they'd stop doing that because it's damned strange.

Fitz digests that a little, expression tightening as he leans back in the sofa and props his chin up in one hand. "And you're all about options, aren't you, Miss Pope?"

It is Fitz's passive-aggressive version of a rebuke. Olivia, apparently, recognizes the remark for what it is and she narrows her eyes. "It's important for the senator to have every tool available to her during this campaign, Governor. Even the less than pretty ones." She spreads her hands diplomatically. "If you have another idea…?"

"I'd run the campaign clean," Fitz murmurs. "Win on my own merits."

"Well that would be extraordinarily helpful if you were running this campaign," Mellie says snidely.

Fitz's eyes dart to hers, and Mellie can already see the flush of anger blooming on his cheeks. "I was asked for my opinion; I gave it. Playing dirty—"

"Does _not_ mean that I cannot win on my own merits," Mellie snarls back.

"If you use anything in that folder, then you don't deserve to win," Fitz snaps.

Within three seconds after Fitz's closes his mouth, Mellie's blood is set to boil. She twists on the sofa to face him, eyes as hard as flint.

"Who," she says slowly, voice low and dangerous, "are _you_ to say what somebody deserves?"

"Oh, fuck," Cyrus mutters, turning away from them and covering his face with his hand.

"You, who have been given everything—_everything_—your entire life because of who your family is," Mellie continues mercilessly. "Money up to your ears, opportunities other people can only dream of, the best schools, _Harvard _for Christ's sake—"

"You come from money too, Mellie. You've been given as much as I have!"

"Not my grades at Harvard," she says firmly, smiling in satisfaction as Fitz's mouth slips closed. "Not my three terms in the state house, not my rise in Washington. Not my election to the Senate. Can you say the same?" she inquires, tilting her head. "Can you say that your family name, the Grant legacy of politics, didn't help you get to Sacramento?"

Fitz sits up straighter, white as a sheet and eyes as black as thunder clouds. "My name got me as much as it got you in politics. You married into this legacy and you run your campaigns as Mellie _Grant_."

"And I _fought_," Mellie bites. "I fought tooth and nail for everything I got in my career, as a woman, as mother, as the ornament on _your_ arm. You think that your name cancelled out everything else I had holding me back? I nearly killed myself trying to get to where I am today, and you…you were _handed_ it," Mellie snarls, disgusted. "You wanted to run for the gubernatorial seat in California and you were barely challenged in your elections. You barely had to campaign. The state welcomed you with open arms—not because of you, not because you deserved it. Because of your _name_." Mellie glares him down, heart pounding. "So don't you dare think you get to pass judgment on any methods I choose to use in running my campaign because unlike you, I am never, ever going to be handed anything I _don't_ deserve."

Mellie's body is tingling from numbness by the time she is done. She stares at Fitz staring at her, lips pressed into a thin line. She knows she's hurt him, but there is no satisfaction in it; it's like swallowing a pouch of ashes dry. Suddenly she looks away, sorry for having hurt him so deeply but still too angry to offer anything remotely resembling an apology.

It doesn't matter, because Fitz stands up in a smooth, calculated move and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him and leaving nothing but tension behind.

The silence in the room is fucking oppressive. Mellie chances a glance at Olivia and Cyrus who both look a few shades paler. It is the first time they have seen the two of them go at it—_really_ go at it—and Mellie can't blame them.

Olivia brushes her lips with her fingers. Cyrus sighs and presses his own fingers into his eye sockets. "Him or her?" he asks under his breath.

Olivia nods resolutely towards the door. "I got him. Since I don't seem to be getting anywhere with the senator," she adds with enough bite in her tone to send Mellie's blood searing again. She glares daggers as Olivia heads after Fitz, just barely managing to not slam the door behind her.

Cyrus and Mellie remain in silence for another minute or so, Cyrus probably still rubbing at his eyes and Mellie decidedly refusing to look at him. The second she hears Cyrus's intake of breath, she cuts him off. "Save it."

She watches him pad across the room and for one moment, she actually thinks he'll acquiesce to her command and leave her be. But Cyrus detours from the entrance way and heads to the mini-bar instead, prompting Mellie to sigh in annoyance. He pokes around the bottles before lifting one.

"It's eight AM," Mellie observes.

"Judge me and die," Cyrus returns waspishly, examining the bottle's label and wrinkling his nose. "Besides, this is your fault. You and that husband of yours drive a body to drink." When Cyrus settles on what Mellie thinks is tequila, he pours himself a glass and raises it towards her in a mock toast. "Here's to your husband's feelings: may they learn to steer clear of your Louboutin stilettos."

"We're not discussing this," Mellie says sharply.

"Oh yes we are," Cyrus replies, knocking back the tequila. "You can spare me all the details, but we are definitely going to have a discussion before you and your man Friday sink this campaign."

"My marriage—"

"I don't care about your marriage." Cyrus weaves his way through the furniture and takes up Olivia's former seat across from her. "That's Olivia's arena, not mine. But if I had known you two were having this much trouble, I would've suggested you divorce him and try again in four years."

"If you don't care about my marriage, then what exactly are we supposed to be discussing?"

"Fitz ever tell you how we met?" Cyrus asks placidly. It is, quite possibly, the last thing Mellie expected Cyrus to say. She is momentarily thrown off kilter, but she recovers quickly enough to shake her head before the silence goes on too long. "Didn't think so."

"If you have something to say," Mellie says through clenched teeth, patience entirely eroded away, "then _say_ it and leave me alone."

Cyrus takes another sip of tequila. "I'm gonna tell you two versions of this story, and at the end, you get to decide which is true. If you ask Fitz," Cyrus begins, leaning forward, "he'll tell you that we met on his inauguration in California seven years ago, we hit it off and I became something of an adviser to him in an unofficial capacity. Whenever he had an aggressive goal in mind, I'd give him a hand with resources or tactics. That whole economic revitalization plan three years ago? That was me."

"If you're waiting for applause—"

"But if you ask _me_," Cyrus cuts in smoothly, like a knife through a soft stick of butter, "I'll tell you that I'm the one who got him elected to the governor's seat in the first place."

Mellie arches an eyebrow. "I was there with him the whole campaign. I never once saw you."

"Well that's 'cause I wasn't there, sunflower." Mellie narrows her eyes. "I didn't actually meet him until the inauguration, but I worked for him, albeit inadvertently, for almost a year."

"Really," Mellie says, unconvinced.

Cyrus looks up at her and motions towards the black folder, apparently switching gears. "Where do you think all that information comes from?"

"Your people. Olivia's people. Campaign staffers paid to dig up dirt."

Cyrus laughs, tinkling the ice in his glass. "It couldn't just come from _me_? You know, little facts that I just had lying around?"

"Seems rather pedestrian," Mellie comments, too annoyed to care about her tone. "The great Cyrus Beene, digging through trashcans and crumpled up pieces of paper like a thief in the night—"

"It came from the CIA," Cyrus interjects, downing his tequila glass. Mellie closes her mouth. She watches Cyrus set the glass aside and smother a quiet burp. "I could have friends there, I could have worked there myself—doesn't matter. For the sake of this story, though, let's say that I have friends like that, friends in high places who have an interest in how these sorts of things turn out."

The atmosphere in the room has shifted with Cyrus's revelation. Mellie considers how to go forward as she processes this new information, adopting a calmer tone. "And when you say 'these sorts of things'…"

"Elections," Cyrus summarizes. "Eight or so years ago, the incumbent governor of California decided he didn't want to run again. Whenever an incumbent bows out, it's _tabula rasa_ for the seat. Feasibly anyone can run and anyone can win. So when names started cropping up for who was gonna fill those shoes, your husband's name popped onto the radar. And these friends of mine happened to really like your husband."

"Why?" Mellie asks, unsure if she wants to know the truth.

"Doesn't matter," Cyrus repeats, saving her from the indecision. "Point is, these friends asked me to do everything in my power to make sure Fitz was elected, and re-elected. So when you say that he barely campaigned, was barely opposed…" Cyrus flicks his fingers errantly.

Mellie goes still. "You…you _rigged_—?"

"Oh, no," Cyrus assuages. "Not rigged. That wasn't necessary. I just made sure that his competition was slim. So I guess you were right about him not deserving it, huh?" Cyrus looks at her levelly. "That should make you feel really good."

It is the exact opposite, but Mellie keeps her expression placid. "So your friendship with Fitz is…?"

"Absolutely genuine," Cyrus answers. "The help I offered him, the advice, that all came from me. No friends involved."

Mellie nods, tongue darting out to moisten her suddenly dry lips. She folds her arms over her chest. "Why did you tell me all this?"

Cyrus's eyes seem to shine, and he leans even closer to her. "Because I knew you could handle it. And _that's_ really my point."

Mellie frowns. "I don't understand."

"When I met Fitz that night, the man that I had spent almost a full year working to get elected, I was surprised," Cyrus says. "I expected him to be…different. Greedy, ruthless, corrupt—the kind of guy that people in high places normally want in power, you know. One of their own. But Fitz, of course, is nothing like that. He's a political angel, a diamond in the rough. He surprised me, and that doesn't happen often. I didn't mind advising him, helping him with this or that, being in his corner. When he asked me to come on board for you, I was more than willing. You surprised me, too; I expected a woman just like him."

"But I'm nothing like Fitz," Mellie says quietly, trying to make herself believe that it isn't something she regrets.

"You aren't," Cyrus agrees, folding his hands together. "Fitz is the paragon people like us want to rally behind and push forward. He's good to his core in a way that simultaneously stuns me and disgusts me." He shakes his head. "But good men have no place in the White House. This isn't an Aaron Sorkin fairytale where if you just try to do the right thing, the world will suddenly bend to your goodness and everything will be a big bowl of cherries. The world doesn't work like that; you and I _get_ that, and even though we aren't as pure as the driven snow, understanding that is what makes us suited for playing the game."

Mellie sighs, eyes downcast, feeling tired again. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying Fitz couldn't do this job." Mellie looks up and meets ice cold blue eyes. "You know it and I know it. The American people might think otherwise—Fitz himself might even think otherwise—but he doesn't have half the stomach for it. The big chair would eat him alive, and knowing that would break his stupid, noble heart. Do you hear what I'm saying? We need people like _you_ for this."

"People like me," Mellie murmurs with a deeply cynical laugh. "Stand-ins for the paragons, you mean."

"I _mean_ exactly what I say, Senator. Do not ever put words in my mouth," he says lowly. "You are not a stand-in or a replacement or the next best thing. You are a woman who knows what's right and good for the world and who will _fight_ for that good. But you're strong enough to be as hard as you have to be to get us there. You can look at all the dark places in this country and see the necessity in them, the greater good in the bigger picture. You can make the hard decisions without letting them corrupt _or_ weaken you. As rare as people like Fitz might be, you are a thing that's even rarer. The world might never know it. Fitz might never know it, but you do. We do. And that has to be good enough for all of us."

Mellie presses her lips together and lowers her eyes again, letting Cyrus's words settle over her. She brushes her thumbs in absent circles on her arms, unable to decide if he has soothed or unsettled her.

A few minutes pass in silence, then Cyrus rises. "We'll respond to Sally Langston. We'll twist her words and milk the outraged response for all it's worth, but we won't use anything in that black folder. It's a superfluous waste of ammunition. But when the time comes," he asks, expression changing, "will you be willing to use it? Use it and anything else you have at your disposal?"

Mellie looks down at that folder, then back up at Cyrus. "Yes," she says firmly.

Cyrus smiles then, darkly, and Mellie has no trouble imagining Cyrus in the CIA. "Then we're in business."

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks for reading, guys. Your reviews really mean a lot to me. More to come!


	5. Chapter 5

Mellie isn't stupid. She knows Cyrus and what he was trying to do with that little speech. He's too methodical to have been simply trying to make her feel better; it was a strategic move, calculated to end with a specific result. All Cyrus had done was tell her what he thought she needed to hear to keep her moving, and it just so happened to be the truth. Mellie is confident that if it had worked out differently, Cyrus would've just as readily had a lie to tell her.

Despite this, Cyrus's words aren't entirely lost on her, either. There is a simple, practical sort of truth in them that should have helped soothe some of the burn where her husband is concerned, but not much helps with that these days, not even the great and terrible Cyrus Beene and his magic words.

No, the _real_ magic of the day's little kerfuffle (as Cyrus insists on calling it just to annoy her, Mellie is fairly certain) went on behind Mellie's back. The business of the day keeps Mellie and Fitz apart for most of it but by that evening, just before dinner, Fitz finds her in their en-suite.

"What is it?" Mellie says without looking up, just because she knows it's him.

"I'm sorry." That sends Mellie's eyes flying away from the first draft of her Carolina speech. Fitz stands before her, hands in his pockets, regarding her with resignation, but also contrition.

Actual fucking _contrition_.

"I shouldn't have insinuated that you couldn't win on your own. Of course you can. And you can use whatever methods you want to run your campaign; it is yours, after all."

Mellie's first instinct is to ask what the hell Olivia said to him, but the shock of Fitz's forthrightness momentarily robs her of speech.

"Okay?" Fitz prompts. Mellie merely nods, still dumbfounded.

It doesn't occur to Mellie until five seconds after the silence has become uncomfortable that Fitz might be waiting on an apology from her. Mellie remembers feeling sorry at the time for what she said and how she said it and who she said it in front of, but something else gets in the way of that memory: Cyrus sitting in a chair opposite her in this very same room, legs crossed and sipping at tequila, casually telling her about how he damn-near rigged an election in Fitz's favor. Fitz, who had been so adamantly against anything but fair play in campaigning.

"I'm sorry too," Mellie says finally, honestly. She _is_ sorry. Only for an entirely different reason now.

"Okay," Fitz repeats with a nod, seemingly satisfied. He leaves the room and Mellie watches him go, mentally tucking Cyrus's confession into a black folder of her own. Just in case.

That Olivia's little talk seems to have straightened Fitz out only compounds Mellie's irritation with him. She had gotten absolutely nowhere, but whatever Olivia had said turned Fitz right around, made him everything that Mellie needs him to be—in public. He is all smiles and anecdotes and soulful blue eyes when they're in public. He holds her hand and opens her doors and even presses a gallant kiss to her knuckles during a town hall meeting in Richmond.

In private, though, nothing changes. Apologies notwithstanding, nothing has been solved and they both know it and there is no less distance between them. If anything, Fitz seems to be _more_ distant, and all the old triggers for another argument are still there. So Mellie's taken to just avoiding him unless it involves the campaign, because that is safer than risking another argument. It isn't the first time that she's had to incorporate navigating a veritable land mine into her day-to-day routine, but there is more at stake than usual. She cannot afford to have her focus taken off the road, not now when she's just starting to hit her stride.

Over the course of the week, the poll numbers shift dramatically, bringing Mellie up to forty six percent by South Carolina. She knows that while some of it is due to her own momentum, the majority of the points come from Sally Langston's incredible gaffe going public. She doesn't want to admit it, but Cyrus and Olivia had been right to talk her down from using any of Cyrus's political capital against Sally; she's done quite the job of sending her career spiraling without any of Mellie's help. And Mellie admits that there's something far more elegant about watching Sally's campaign sink without ever having to lay a finger on it. By the time South Carolina's primary comes, Mellie has just skated into first place by a two point margin with ten percent of the voters undecided.

Sheer dumb luck isn't exactly a win on her own like she would've preferred, but it is still a win nonetheless. There is another celebration in the hotel suite after Mellie and Fitz return from her speech and this time, Mellie lets herself partake in a little victory party. The staffers seem happy, at least. Amidst beers and potato chips and horribly cheesy music straight out of an 80s prom nightmare, Mellie is given congratulatory handshakes and embraces and a stream of encouraging words as she makes her way through the room.

"We still need a campaign song!" Bianca exclaims, almost knocking her beer over as she shoots forward in her chair. "Any suggestions, Senator?"

"Nothing from this playlist," Mellie says, wincing as the song switches to the Bee Gees.

"Beautiful Day?" Lucas suggests. Bianca waves her hand dismissively.

"No. We can't do U2. Everybody and their dog does U2 when they run. We need something unique."

"What's Sally Langston's campaign song?" asks Lucas.

"Have a Little Faith in Me. I know," Bianca adds at the slew of practically revolted looks, wrinkling her nose in like-minded disgust.

Even Danielle is sneering a little. "Oh, she _would_. There isn't a single thing about that woman that isn't mind-numbingly nauseating."

Mellie blinks. "I don't think I've ever heard you say a bad word about anybody, Danielle," she wonders aloud. Mellie manages to hide her smirk when Danielle turns an interesting shade of scarlet, but it's a near thing.

"That's what happens when you spend too much time with Cyrus." Mellie turns to find Olivia flanking her; Mellie's ever-present shadow. "We have a busy day tomorrow, Senator. We should call it a night."

"Yes, I suppose we should," Mellie says with a sigh, rubbing out a knot of tension that's formed in the back of her neck. Meanwhile, Olivia finds Cyrus's eyes in the room and gives him a swift nod. He stands and claps his hands together.

"C'mon, kiddies, hit the hay. We have a sunrise service at oh-fuck-hundred tomorrow morning."

As the staffers gather up their laptops and empty beer bottles, Mellie glances around the room to find one face missing. "Where's Fitz?"

"He went up a few minutes ago. Said he had a headache."

Of course he did. Mellie waves as the last few staffers head to bed and decides that this is as good a time as any to bring it up. "I need to speak with you and Mr. Beene for a moment."

There is already a frown creasing his features when Olivia beckons him over. "What?" Cyrus says hesitantly.

Mellie wants to bristle at his utter exasperation but knows that it'll be counterproductive. Instead, she directs her question to Olivia. "I think that Fitz and I need some time apart."

A red flush bleeds into Cyrus's pale face. "What?" Cyrus says again, voice far too light to bode well.

"Some time to ourselves would let us both recharge," Mellie continues, keeping her focus on Olivia. Though she really isn't sure if Olivia's taking this any better than Cyrus, frankly; thus far, Olivia has not blinked. She doesn't even look like she's breathing.

In the silence, Mellie glances at them both. This had sounded so much better in her head.

"Recharge," Cyrus repeats tonelessly and _fuck_: Mellie's worked with him long enough now to know that when Cyrus starts parroting words, she's screwed.

"Yes," Mellie responds, ignoring the sudden acceleration of her heart.

Cyrus just stares at her. "What's wrong with you? And I mean that seriously," he continues at the somewhat mystified expression that's fallen over Mellie's face. "What in the name and glory of god is _wrong_ with you? Is self-sabotage natural to you? Are you a masochist?"

Mellie thinks she has to be, to endure this from day to day. Cyrus Beene is a ring of hell all his own. She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose.

"Mr. Beene," she starts, using every single ounce of her self-control to keep her voice cordial because she _needs_ them to agree to this, but Cyrus is having none of it. He stalks forward until his face is only a foot from hers.

"Olivia was nice enough to put your Humpty-Dumpty back together and you're trying to undo all of that? And that isn't a cute metaphor, either: Fitz is literally being held together with crazy glue, duct tape and a patented Olivia Pope pep-talk. If you so much as breathe in his general direction, we run the risk of him cracking."

It is beginning to irk her, just how concerned everyone seems to be over Fitz's feelings. The man flew fighter jets in Desert Storm, for Christ's sake; he should not need to be coddled. Not by her or by anyone. "That's just it. We're tip-toeing through the tulips and it's exhausting. All the more reason for a break from each other, yes?"

"_No_," Cyrus fairly snaps. "You two have been barely photographed together. You don't need more distance, you need less."

"We'll spin it," Mellie insists. "Fitz misses his kids, wants to see them."

"Oh well that would just be _brilliant_, wouldn't it?" drawls Cyrus, red as a beet now. "If we send Fitz back to California on that premise and keep you here, what's the implication there? Fitz misses his kids enough to go home and see them, but their mother doesn't. Both of you go visit your kids or neither of you do, and you can't afford time off right now."

Mellie closes her eyes. "There has got to be a way that we could just—"

"I'm not hearing this."

"Mr. Beene—"

"Not hearing this," Cyrus trills. "And would you knock it off with the 'Mr. Beene' stuff, already? I've seen you in the morning before you've had your coffee; formalities are so moot it's not even funny. My name is Cyrus. Use it."

"Cyrus," Mellie says gratingly even though she really wants to say _go fuck yourself_. "I think Fitz and I would really benefit from some time apart. We need breathing room."

"You do realize you just quoted Adolf Hitler there," Cyrus points out, voice dry.

"There's a literacy fundraiser taking place in Raleigh in two days." It's the first time Olivia has spoken since Mellie voiced her request.

"Yes," Mellie says eagerly, attaching herself to the idea like a lifesaver. "He could fly tomorrow, stay for a few days, then join us in Florida."

"It would look good for our education reform platform," Olivia continues with a nod towards Cyrus.

Cyrus looks between them and throws his hands up. "Fine. We send Fitz to North Carolina. But you," he adds, pointing a finger at her, "_you_ are going to boot camp."

As Cyrus strides from the room in a dramatic huff, Mellie turns to Olivia. "Boot camp?"

"Debate practice. We'll iron out the details tomorrow during the rundown." She makes for the door before adding over her shoulder, "I'll make sure Cyrus sends Danielle with the governor."

"Sweet angel," Mellie murmurs in thanks as the door closes.

* * *

Fitz agrees to the literacy benefit and the next afternoon, they put him on a plane bound for Raleigh-Durham International. Mellie had half-expected that issue to be the stage for their next big argument, but had been pleasantly surprised by Fitz's almost immediate acquiescence.

That Olivia had brought it up probably helped. She had had the perfect little speech prepared for the rundown and had framed the literacy benefit as purely her and Cyrus's idea, and Fitz had gone along with it without a fight. Mellie can't help but think that if she herself had been suggesting it, that next big argument would've been far more than a mere possibility.

"That was easier than I thought it would be," Mellie confesses candidly while she, Cyrus and Olivia watch Fitz board the plane, Danielle and two other staffers in tow. On the tarmac in front of them, the propellers on Fitz's private charter begin to whir to life. "I suppose I should thank—"

"Oh for the love of god, don't _thank_ us," Cyrus mutters under his breath. "We may have just tanked your whole run."

"By sending Fitz away for three days?" Mellie points out incredulously.

"I could start a global war in one hour," Cyrus says. "Do you know what kind of hell can be raised in three whole days?"

"A war?" Mellie finds herself asking because hell, with Cyrus, that's probably not a joke.

"You're scaring the client, Cy," Olivia says conversationally.

"A _global_ war," Cyrus sniffs, ignoring Olivia. "Guns, tanks, troops. Flags."

"Nukes," Olivia adds helpfully. Mellie looks between them and realizes that oh yes, she is well and truly _screwed_.

"So now, debate camp?" she prompts.

"Yep," Cyrus replies with a nod as they watch Fitz's plane pull backwards and start down the runway. "Debate camp and we have three days of you with a clear head. By sundown on Friday, you had better be able to debate your way out of a paper bag."

When they return to the hotel, the staffer worker bees have converted one of the largest meeting rooms the hotel had to offer into a small conference hall, complete with a mock stage and podium.

Mellie climbs the stage. It is hot up here under so many lights but she takes her place behind the podium, nodding when she's ready. Cyrus starts the drill off first, asking her a round of debate-style questions while staffers take notes in the background. He watches her keenly as she speaks but doesn't say a single word or offer a piece of instruction.

So she is very surprised when, after one hour, Cyrus stands up and nods. "I have a few appointments to head to so Olivia's going to get you started."

"Started?" Mellie blinks. What the hell have they been doing for the past hour?

Cyrus's hands clasp Olivia's shoulders as he sidles by her chair."Everything up to now has been gauging. We wanted to see how you were at this naturally without any input."

"Ready to continue, Senator?" Olivia asks before Cyrus has even left the room.

"So now there'll be input," Mellie hedges just to clarify. Without looking up from her work, Olivia nods. "I'm ready, then."

"Good." Olivia flips up a page on her clipboard. "Senator Grant, many people have questioned the validity of your conservatism, given your particularly vocal stance on abortion. How would you address these concerns?"

"Well," Mellie begins with a small laugh and a smile, "I would have to say that—"

"Stop." Mellie squints through the lights to look at Olivia, who is scribbling furiously on her clipboard. "Not good. Again."

"Not good?" Mellie repeats, eyebrows rising.

"Not good."

"I didn't say anything yet," Mellie says, confused.

"Start over."

Mellie's eyes burn into the top of Olivia's scalp. She wasn't even _looking_ at her, for Christ's sake. "What wasn't good about it?"

"Too defensive."

"I didn't even _say_ anything!"

"It was _defensive_," Olivia returns, now sounding annoyed. "Start again. Senator Grant, many people have—"

"Tell me how I was being defensive." Mellie's jaw clenches, and finally Olivia looks up. Mellie can't read her expression under the hot glare of the lights, but Olivia's expression can be a palpable thing, hard and heavy and Mellie can _feel_ it. She stands her ground, fingers clenching the side of the podium.

Abruptly, Olivia turns to address the myriad of people behind her.

"How about everyone take a ten minute breather? Coffee, cigarettes, bathroom. Get."

The lights beaming down on Mellie shut off and she sighs exasperatedly as her campaign workers eagerly hop-to at Olivia's command. Olivia sets her clipboard on the chair she vacated and approaches the mock stage. "You were being defensive," Olivia says again firmly.

"I didn't even have a chance to respond, and I don't appreciate you undermining my authority in front of everyone," Mellie snaps.

Olivia smiles—actually _smiles_, as though genuinely amused and Mellie nearly bites a hole through the inside of her cheek. "I wasn't aware that you had been elected yet, Madam President. How exactly have I undermined your authority?"

"You argued with me in front of everyone."

"Yeah," Olivia says. "I do that. If you want somebody to fall in step with you and stroke your ego even when you screw up, you should've hired somebody else. You were being defensive."

Mellie takes a deep breath and tries to summon patience. "I can't do this," she forces out, "if you challenge me like that in front of the people working on my campaign."

"The people working on your campaign aren't going anywhere. The people working on your campaign actually believe in your campaign. That _is_ why they're here, you know. They believe in your message and in you." She pauses. "I'm not so sure about you, though."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Mellie demands.

"I mean I'm not sure _you_ believe in you," she replies patiently.

The temperature in the room seems to drop, cooling the light sheen of sweat on Mellie's brow and raising gooseflesh all over her skin. A scowl twists her face and she pushes away from the podium with contempt. "This is absolutely absurd."

"I don't think it is."

"I believe in myself," Mellie tosses over her shoulder as she steps down from the dais, feeling ridiculous for even having to say it.

"You're not acting like you do." Olivia's words are like a hot brand on her skin.

"And what am I acting like, Miss Pope?"

"Not like someone who believes in herself. You're acting like someone who is killing herself trying because she thinks she's got something to prove."

Mellie barks out a laugh. "And I don't?"

"Of course you do. Every candidate has to convince the country that they deserve their vote. But it's going to be a hell of a thing, trying to convince the American people before you convince yourself."

That halts Mellie in her tracks. When she twists slowly, deliberately to face Olivia, she is _seething_. "Do you think," she begins softly, "that after watching me for less than two months that you can just—_diagnose_ me?"

"I'm very good at what I do," is all Olivia says. She moves forward, decisive and bold. "You have a lot of strikes against you, Senator Grant—strikes that you know better than anyone. Practically everyone involved in this has told you how hard this is going to be, yet you insist on making it even harder for yourself."

"What are you talking about?"

"Everything is a battle with you, Senator. _Everything_," Olivia repeats harshly, striding up to get right in Mellie's face. "You fight us every step of the way as if we aren't on your side, or like we're going to turn on you. And you _are_ defensive, in every single way. I don't know if this is just your MO or if you're just not used to having people in your corner, but you need to understand that you aren't alone anymore. We're all here to help you. I'm here to help you, if you'd just _let_ me." Olivia motions behind her in the direction of the gaggle of people who just departed. "And there isn't a single person here who doesn't believe in you."

Somewhere, between Olivia opening and closing her mouth, Mellie's own has gone completely dry. She feels exposed under Olivia's piercing brown eyes, raw and naked in a way that goes beyond mere discomfort. The walls of the room seem to press closer to her, closing her in and making it difficult to breathe.

With effort, Mellie forces herself to look away from Olivia, to break the hold Olivia has on her. Her heart beats hard beneath the silk of her blouse and she tries to collect herself under the relentless scrutiny of Olivia's gaze. Her immediate instinct is to snap, to say that Olivia's gone too far, gotten too personal, that she is absolutely wrong in her assessment.

But that would be a lie, and she isn't allowed to lie to Olivia Pope. Mellie isn't sure she can, even if she tried. Pulse roaring in her ears, Mellie wets her dry lips, flicking her eyes towards Olivia. "Show me what to do," she says, quietly enough so that Olivia doesn't hear how unsteady her voice is.

For a moment, neither of them move. Then, resolutely, Olivia climbs onto the dais and beckons Mellie to follow. She takes up Mellie's place behind the podium that is too tall for her, but she stands there with certainty and confidence, shoulders squared and head held high. Mellie watches her there, almost captivated.

"Take no more than five seconds at a time to review your notes. Keep your eyes up and on the interviewer, or the audience. Even if you can't see them." Olivia steps back and reaches out to grip Mellie's wrist, to position Mellie in front of her. Then, Olivia reaches around to take both of Mellie's hands and place them on either side of the podium. "Keep your hands here. Don't grip too tightly, like it's the only thing holding you up."

Olivia's fingers squeeze hers with the right amount of pressure, and then they slide away. She steps out of Mellie's line of sight and Mellie makes a conscious effort to keep her eyes on the empty chairs in front of her. "Take a deep breath," she commands softly, her own breath dusting the side of Mellie's neck.

Mellie does, with only a little difficulty.

"You're a woman and a mother and you have a husband who's been groomed for the job you're running for practically since birth, but they are non-issues. They are _noise_. Don't make them bigger than they really are. If you don't, then the voters won't."

That has her frowning and Mellie looks around at Olivia, some of the tension finally ebbing away. "That…is ridiculously naïve."

Olivia smiles again, small and fleeting but absolutely genuine. "Don't think of it as naïve. Think of it as idealistic. _You_ control the narrative," she continues, coming around Mellie to stand in front of the podium. "Now, let's try again. Senator Grant, many people have questioned the validity of your conservatism, given your particularly vocal stance on abortion. How would you address these concerns?"

She lifts her eyes and finds Olivia's. Then, Mellie opens her mouth and lets herself speak.

* * *

**A/N**: Thanks for your patience, guys. Life kind of got in the way. Please R&R! More to come.


	6. Chapter 6

There was a time in Mellie's life when she had thought that she was an exceptional debater. It was something she had always excelled at in school and is a major source of pride for her in her political career; she is witty and articulate and very, very good at getting her point across—problems with Fitz notwithstanding.

Three days of Cyrus's aptly-named boot camp rid her of every notion she'd ever had about her debating skill. The three days, in a word, are _brutal._ The confrontation with Olivia is merely the tip of the iceberg.

"It makes little sense to me how you can campaign so strongly for educational reform when you don't believe in providing new and improved textbooks for high school students. Especially for those who need them most," says Cyrus rather lightly, standing next to her on the stage at a podium of his own sometime after lunch on day two.

Mellie's mouth opens, and then closes, then opens again. "That's preposterous."

"My thoughts exactly, Senator," Cyrus responds, holding out an arm to her. "Care to explain yourself?"

"I support providing textbooks for high schools," Mellie argues, bewildered.

"No you don't," is Cyrus's whip-quick response.

Mellie frowns and looks to Olivia, sitting four feet from the stage in the first row of chairs. "How do I not support providing textbooks for high schools?"

"You voted no against S-304 two years ago, the bill that would've allocated funding to over one thousand inner-city schools across the country," Olivia says, seemingly off the top of her head.

It takes a moment for Mellie to remember it. When she does, her jaw drops. "I blocked that bill because it provided only enough money for those one thousand schools, leaving the other tens of thousands of ill-equipped and run-down schools in the cold and I refuse to pass a bill that would help only some and not _all_," she snaps.

Olivia, who has been moderating Mellie and Cyrus's debate for the last hour with an incredible amount of method-acting, leans forward and props her elbows up on her knees. "Maybe you should say that to Senator Langston," she suggests with the ghost of a smile, nodding at Cyrus.

Mellie glances over at him to find Cyrus grinning expectantly, rocking back and forth on his heels. She sighs.

They drill her and they drill her hard, forcing her to think more quickly than she ever has, testing the limits of her patience with remarks designed to inflame her or throw her off balance. Cyrus controls the talking points while Olivia redesigns her tone, the words she uses, every look on her face and every gesture she makes. It's physically and psychologically draining; Mellie stands at the podium for several hours a day re-inventing the way she speaks and holds herself and addresses political issues. The amount of nuances that Olivia and Cyrus can see is astounding. Or Mellie _would_ be astounded if she weren't so goddamn exhausted.

The only respite she gets is on the nine hour drive to Florida and even then, Cyrus fires off question after question at her as they speed across the countryside. When they reach their hotel, the mock stage is set up again and the whole process begins anew.

But by the end of day three when Mellie completes her closing remarks, Cyrus declares Mellie ready.

"You've done good, madam," Cyrus assesses, and a few of the aides actually give her some applause.

"The conclusion still needs some work," Olivia cuts in, bursting Mellie's bubble. "We need something a bit more engaging than what you gave. It has to be concise, but bold. Charismatic. We need to give them something to remember you by."

"What if she walked across the stage and strangled Sally Langston with the microphone cord?" Cyrus suggests with a sort of manic glee that has a few of the staffers behind Olivia snickering.

"We lose every state except Texas," Olivia replies.

"I think I can live with that," Cyrus mutters. Mellie can see Lucas struggle to smother a laugh.

"We can work on closing remarks later in the week, but I think we're prepared for the debate," Olivia announces.

"Which is good, considering it's in less than two weeks." Cyrus looks over to Mellie. "Feeling confident?"

"Yes I am," Mellie says, smiling.

Despite the fact that the last three days were _hell_, Mellie feels re-energized. She had wanted breathing room and she'd gotten it; there is air in the room now, a sense of ease and calm that was not there when Fitz was still here. Every word had felt like a tip-toe, spoken gingerly with the full expectation of an argument spawning. Mellie feels freer, lighter and more focused.

But it is just as Olivia had said days ago: there is no ignoring the problem. It will return when Fitz does, and tackling it will be just as difficult and frustrating. But for now, Mellie breathes a little easier.

Mellie rolls her shoulders and _fuck_, they're as stiff as bricks. "So what's next?"

"Uh, _dinner_," Cyrus replies decisively. "Everyone, take the rest of the night off."

More applause and whoops come after that announcement and Mellie leans against the podium and watches as her staff gather their effects and head out, clearly giddy at the prospect of a free night.

She feels eyes on her and turns to see Cyrus regarding her with a strange expression. "What?"

"You're actually getting _fond_ of the little bastards, aren't you?" he accuses, curling his lip in revulsion.

Mellie throws her pen at him.

As she and Cyrus amble off the stage, Mellie can see one of the staffers rushing back into the room.

"Lucas," Cyrus calls in what Mellie assumes is his equivalent of a sing-song voice, "I distinctly remember telling you to take the night off, and yet, here you still are."

But Lucas is ignoring Cyrus (something no one except Olivia has the brass to do, _ever_) and speaking in a quick, hushed tone with Olivia. Mellie watches the exchange curiously and by the time Lucas finished, Olivia's mouth is pressed into a thin, hard line.

"Lucas?" Cyrus hedges, only to find that Lucas is making a hasty retreat while Olivia is digging her phone out of the pocket of her jacket. "Olivia," Cyrus says instead, turning to her with a question in his eyes.

But Olivia is punching the buttons on her phone so rapidly that Mellie can barely follow them, and then she's lifting it to her ear and walking away from them.

"Uh-oh," Cyrus mumbles, running a hand through his hair.

"What's going on?" Mellie asks, eyes fixed to Olivia as she paces in a circle back and forth across the room.

"When?" Olivia suddenly snarls into her phone—presumably, when the call goes through. There is a small pause and then she's biting out, "_why_?" in an even harsher tone.

And then, it's over. Olivia lowers the phone, terminates the call with a harsh jab of her thumb and then chucks it at her bag with force. "I am going to _kill_ him."

"Liv?" Cyrus calls.

"I am going to chew him up and spit him out."

"Liv."

"And after I'm done with him, I'll keep the charred remnants of his pitiful little career in a jar on my mantle."

"Olivia," Cyrus tries again and this is something Mellie didn't think she'd ever see: Cyrus trying to call _Olivia_ off the warpath. She isn't sure if she should be amused or horrified.

"What's going on?" Mellie repeats and that is what finally gets Olivia's attention.

She turns to Mellie and straightens up, taking a deep breath. "That was Billy Chambers."

And really, that's all she has to say because already, Mellie's heart is sinking into her stomach. "What did he want?"

"Sally Langston wants to have dinner with you," Olivia says. "Tonight."

…_Ah_. Mellie's heartbeat slows down considerably and she breathes a sigh of relief. "Is that all?"

"Is that _all_?" Olivia parrots, eyebrows climbing into her hair.

"Son of a bitch," Cyrus growls.

Mellie looks between them and not for the first time feels like the densest person in the room. "I'm missing something."

"A private dinner two days before the Florida primary after you've pulled ahead in the race," Cyrus clarifies.

"If you don't go, Billy will surely leak it to the press—Sally offering the olive branch and you choosing to set it on fire," Olivia continues. "It'll hurt us in the polls."

"By how much?" Mellie asks.

Cyrus's forehead creases in thought. "It's difficult to say. Sally is a desperate woman at this point and Billy, despite that haircut, isn't stupid. They probably have a new group of media consultants ready to milk this story for all it's worth."

"Probably?" Mellie repeats with a smirk. "Isn't it your job to know these things for sure?"

Cyrus's mouth snaps shut. Olivia picks up the ball. "The point is, if you don't go, our shoe-in victory here becomes far less certain."

"So I'll go," Mellie says, and then laughs, because the twin looks of abject horror that befall Cyrus and Olivia's faces may be the funniest thing she's seen in her life.

Mellie spends the next hour preparing. Cyrus and Olivia spend the next hour trying to talk her out of it. Mellie chooses a pin-striped steel-colored pantsuit and a sky blue blouse the same color of her eyes, pairs it with a set of classically black pumps and pearls before seating herself at the vanity table to work on her hair.

"…and a million other reasons that this is a very bad idea, Senator," Cyrus is saying—and has been saying with variations and the occasional curse word for the past fifty-seven minutes. "Capital letters: Very Bad Idea."

Mellie piles her long hair into a sensible knot at the top of her head. "Where does she want to meet me?"

"The King Cole Restaurant inside the Metropolitan Hotel," Olivia informs her.

Mellie considers it: not here, and not at Sally's own hotel. Neutral ground. Perfect.

"Which is moot as you are _not_ going," Cyrus adds.

"And it's private?" Mellie inquires.

"At Sally's request, Billy said."

"Oh good. Sally and I can deal without him in the way."

"No, no, _no_, absolutely not," Cyrus grounds out. "There will be no dealing without me."

"I don't need a nanny," Mellie says firmly, but without vitriol. "And it was just a joke, Cyrus; there will be no dealing. Cross my heart," she lies through her perfect teeth.

"Of course there won't because _you aren't going_."

"You don't have to do this," Olivia points out sensibly—as though that wasn't clear— watching as Mellie slips another pin into her hair. "We can deal with the drop in the polls some other way."

"Aren't you curious to see what she has to say?"

"Sally Langston is a grade A fuckwit and I have no desire to hear anything she has to say," Cyrus spits out.

The heat in his voice intrigues Mellie. She meets his gaze in the vanity mirror. "If I didn't know you any better, Cyrus, I'd say that that sounded more than a little personal."

Something in Cyrus's face flickers then; it's small and seemingly involuntary. "She's not right for this job," he says after a few beats, the hesitation just as damning as the twitch in his usually unreadable expression.

Mellie arches an eyebrow. She and Cyrus stare each other down until Olivia steps forward.

"This is a mind game," she states, and Mellie recognizes that, too; Olivia is trying to take her focus off Cyrus.

Mellie decides to let it slide, because it isn't her business and she has far more important things to worry about today. "I know," she says, glancing to Olivia as she puts on the pair of simple pearl earrings.

"She's going to try and throw you off balance," Cyrus continues.

"I _know_," Mellie says again, calmly. "But she's also going to give me the opportunity to do the same to her, and I can't pass that up."

"Hell of a wager," Cyrus warns. "Senator, are you sure—"

"I'm sure," Mellie says as she stands and straightens her pristine suit. "Trust me. This is one aspect of the game that I need absolutely no help with."

"But—"

Olivia reaches out and catches Cyrus's arm. "Okay," she says definitively, giving Mellie a nod. And Mellie appreciates that from Olivia, that despite that strange moment of vulnerability days ago when she'd first started boot camp, Olivia knows when to step back. Mellie makes a note of it and smiles.

"Don't wait up. Oh, and Cyrus?" she says once she reaches the door, twisting to look at him over her shoulder. "My name is Mellie. Use it."

* * *

The King Cole Restaurant is upscale and somewhat pretentious, but a place that Mellie has always heard good things about. She enters at seven o'clock precisely and the maître d', upon receiving her name, leads her through the crowd of people to a small, quiet section of the restaurant clearly designed for business meetings.

Behind a set of stunning French doors is Sally Langston, and she is alone. Mellie lets her smile turn into a full grin as she glides inside, watching Sally rise from the table. She is wearing a green tweed dress suit of her own that compliments her rust-colored hair and Peridot eyes.

"Senator Langston," she says warmly in greeting, coming around the table and extending her hand.

"Senator Grant." Sally's voice is just as warm and sickly sweet. She pulls her hand away after two firm shakes and Mellie is thankful; had Sally tried to give her an air kiss, Mellie might have had to kill her. "Please, sit down. I took the liberty of ordering us a bottle of their finest cabernet sauvignon. I know how you favor your red wines."

"How considerate of you," Mellie replies, voice saccharine enough to rot her teeth.

"I'm so glad we could get together and do this," Sally continues and Christ, it sounds so stiff and rehearsed that Mellie has to fight to keep her expression open and cordial. "It's been…what, ten, eleven months since we've been in the same room together?"

Sally's slow, condescending drawl makes Mellie want to claw her eyes out.

"At least. Not since our work on the immigration reform commission." A commission that they had each been on the exact opposite of ideologically. "Tell me, how are Doug and the girls?"

And that's fairly how it goes for the first ten minutes or so, each of them taking turns to catch the other up on their families as though they were close friends. It is all just a part of the game and superfluous though it is, Mellie likes this aspect of it, likes drawing out the pleasantries to read her opponent. Sally's hands are steady on her water glass and her words come out smooth and even, but Mellie can tell: Sally is nervous.

It absolutely tickles her pink. "So," Mellie says, ready to start the actual conversation, "how are you finding life on the campaign trail?"

"Oh, it's utterly grueling," Sally groans, waving a withered hand. "Truth be told, I don't have the energy for it."

"Neither have I," Mellie agrees.

"It does help having Doug and the girls there with me. A semblance of normality," Sally tosses out with a wooden laugh. "You must miss Jerry and Karen something awful."

The hand tucked safely out of sight on her lap curls into a fist. "I do, but it's a comfort to have Fitz with me."

"Oh, is he with you? I was under the impression that he was in North Carolina. A literacy benefit?"

"He'll be back in time for the primary, but it was an opportunity we couldn't turn down. I would've attended it myself if I weren't on the road."

"Yes, I understand how much education means to you."

Mellie smiles. Sally is so impatient. "As much as your faith means to you, I'd imagine."

Sally smiles then too, and Mellie knows that this is the point of no return. She is ready. "We're going to give the country a marvelous debate before Super Tuesday," Sally observes. "This may be not be the most important debate that's ever taken place in this country, but it's got to be the most historic. Two women, both presidential candidates. We're making history, Mellie."

"We are. It's a shame that history will only remember one of us."

"And I'm sure you're hell bent on making certain that the one immortalized is you," Sally says, cordiality in her voice hanging by a thread.

"As I'm sure the reverse is true. But I have a better idea," Mellie suggests brightly, unwrapping the cloth napkin and draping it over her knees. "The night after tomorrow, I'm going to take Florida. If you drop out before Super Tuesday, I'll make you Vice President. Let history remember both of us, hmm?"

Sally chuckles. "Well now, that's mighty nice of you, isn't it?"

"Not quite the godless whore you expected?" Mellie returns cheekily before frowning in contemplation. "'Godless whore'…that _is_ what you like to tell your voters I am, isn't it?"

Sally's smile remains frozen on her face, but her eyes blacken. Oh, Mellie's struck a nerve. _Wonderful_. "A righteous man falling down before the wicked is as a troubled fountain, and a corrupt spring."

Mellie runs the words over in her head. "Proverbs, chapter twenty-five, verse twenty-six. Is that your fancy way of turning me down?"

"What makes you think that I would ever agree to work under you?" Sally inquires instead. It still isn't a no.

"Because I think that if it ever truly came down to it, given the choice between your political career and your faith, you'd choose politics." Mellie tilts her head. "Wouldn't you, Sally?"

A strange look passes over Sally's face at that, and Mellie wonders if Sally is thinking about her daughter's dirty little secret, too.

"You _are_ a godless whore," she hisses. "You're an Ivy League elitist born with a silver spoon in her mouth. You're pushy and wickedly liberal and your outrageous sense of entitlement keeps you blind to one important fact—"

Mellie's delighted laugh cuts Sally's tirade short. "And what might that be?"

"The fact that you are not as good as the man you married." Sally's eyes gleam with satisfaction as Mellie's smile falters. "The man who _should_ be running. Everyone knows it. You'd destroy everything this country was and should be again clamoring for the office when it should rightfully be your husband's crowning glory."

Silence settles over them. There is a delicate, unassuming tap on the glass of the doors. The sommelier enters with that fine bottle of red which he uncorks and pours for the two of them while Mellie surveys Sally intently. When they are alone again, Mellie lifts her glass, takes a delicate sniff, and sips.

Robust flavors burst over her tongue, leaving her mouth dry after she swallows. Well, if nothing else, Sally Langston has good taste in wines.

"My husband," Mellie says after taking another sip, "is going to be a magnificent First Gentleman. As yours would've been, had you not driven your one chance at the job into the ground."

"Political careers as long and distinguished as mine are elastic," Sally returns. "I will be back."

"Maybe. But until then, you'll be sitting in Atlanta gathering dust."

"And you'd rather me gather dust as your second-in-command in Washington."

"Precisely." Sally's lip curls in disgust. Mellie decides she's had enough fun with the senator. "Sally, consider your position very, very carefully."

"I don't respond to threats."

"I don't make them," Mellie shoots back. "I am doing something revolutionary with the party—breaking down lines, calling for political unification. I'm young, fresh; I have an appeal that will cross the aisle and snag liberals and the party will love me for it. If you truly do want to run again in eight years—and yes, it will be eight, I promise you—would it really hurt for your resume to have the title of Vice President on it? And to have the support of my name behind you?"

"Don't pretend that I'm the only one who would benefit from such an arrangement."

"Oh, I'm not," Mellie assures her calmly. "Believe me, your name with mine on the ticket would help bring me a lot of voters. But don't think that I couldn't find some other ultra-Christian political hypocrite to tag along with me if you turned me down. You need this more than I do, Sally," she states plainly. "You are an outdated one trick pony who should've been put out to pasture years ago fighting like hell to remain relevant in Washington. You're past your prime, Sally, and clinging to the vestiges of a half-assed career in the Senate is not only unattractive; it's pathetic. And now, after losing a Presidential bid, signing on as VP is the only thing that's going to keep the RNC chair from dragging you to the glue factory."

And then Sally Langston is on her feet, jostling the expensive dinnerware covering the table.

"You're losing, Sally," Mellie warns smoothly. "You're going to lose. This is the last stop."

"I hope they _crucify_ you," Sally snarls, gathering up her purse.

Mellie watches her, reaching for her wine glass and licking her lips. "You're right about one thing, though. I'm not as good as my husband." She waits until Sally looks up before smiling again. "I'm even better."

Sally turns scarlet with fury. "Good evening, _Mrs_. Grant," she snaps, stalking towards the door.

"Oh, and Sally?" Mellie calls softly, lowering her glass just enough so that Sally can see her expression clearly. "Mention my children to the press again and I will _destroy_ you."

Mellie gets one good look at the thunderous expression that darkens Sally Langston's face just before the door slams. She raises her glass to her lips again; it really is an excellent vintage.

* * *

**A/N**: To the anonymous reviewer and anyone else who wants to know where this story is going:

You don't really think I'm going to tell you, do you? I will say, though, that this is 100% Mellie's story, and that includes her relationships with Fitz, with Cyrus, and yes, with Olivia. While other characters' relationships and how they affect Mellie will be important features of her journey, if you're looking for this to suddenly transform into a story that's, for example, _only_ about Olivia and Fitz's interactions from Mellie's perspective, then you should definitely look somewhere else.

There are scores of stories on this website alone that focus on other characters, and I encourage you to check those out if you're feeling dissatisfied with this one. I've even written a few of them myself.

If there are any similar questions or concerns, feel free to PM me where I can better respond to you personally. As always, thank you so much for reading and dropping a review!


	7. Author's Note

Mmkay, guys, let me be perfectly clear with you:

I am more than willing to discuss any aspect of this story with anybody who asks **_as long as they PM me_****.** This space is for the story itself, not for a discussion on where it's headed. I understand that a lot of you aren't registered with this site and therefore can't send PMs, but that's the way it's got to be - out of courtesy to the other readers and because answers to these questions would obviously include spoilers. Bring your questions to me in PMs or they will not be answered at all.

To the guest reviewer with the tagging concerns: this story _is_ tagged properly. The reason it's probably popping up in your filters is because I've tagged it with both Fitz and Olivia, as they both feature prominently in this story. I would suggest making sure that your filters EXEMPT Mellie Grant from all queries if you'd rather not see her name in your searches at all.

To all my other readers, I apologize for this interruption. It won't happen again. Thanks for reading and reviewing; more of this story will be up soon!

-Executivehpfan


	8. Chapter 7

Mellie is halfway to her hotel when her purse begins to buzz. She looks down at her bag it for a moment and then sighs, digging through it and finding her phone.

"What?" she says when she answers the call, just because she knows who it is.

"You're picking up bad habits from Olivia. That's no way to answer the phone."

"It is if I know it's you on the other end." She pauses to check her watch. "It's ten minutes after nine."

"How'd it go?"

"I told you not to wait up."

"And it's real cute how you thought I'd actually listen to you."

Well, she'd had her hopes. Mellie turns her eyes to the groves flying past the car window. "Please tell me you and Olivia aren't still in my room."

"Olivia went to bed like a good little girl. I, on the other hand, do what I want so tell me how it went," says Cyrus.

Mellie capitulates. "It went fine."

"Fine as in 'we're fucked', or fine as in 'we're _fucked'_?"

"Cyrus," she begins in a honeyed tone, "I know this may be difficult for you to believe, but I was actually a politician _before_ you came along. A pretty decent one, in fact. I managed to have plenty of dinners without destroying my career."

For a long minute, there's silence on the other end. Mellie checks to see if the call is still connected. "Cyrus?"

"You knocked her on her ass, didn't you?" says Cyrus, and either Mellie's hallucinating or that's pride in his voice.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to. You sound smug." He makes a little sound. "Mellie Grant, the Dragonslayer. Slayer of dragons."

Mellie rolls her eyes. "Good night, Cyrus. And get out of my room."

She lowers her phone and looks out the window again, smiling to herself.

* * *

Mellie sleeps well that night, better than she has the whole time she's been out on the campaign trail and by the time her alarm rings at six, she feels well-rested and ready to tackle the day. Not even the thought of Fitz's return slows her down.

By the time she has showered and dressed, the world beyond her bedroom door has grown loud with activity. Mellie emerges to find her hotel room filled with her staff, many already on phones or pads or laptops, talking over each other and shouting requests across the room. Her staff is in what Olivia calls 'game mode', which begins forty-eight hours before a primary takes place; the volunteers go into overdrive, checking and double-checking stats, making campaign calls, monitoring the media and curbing anything that could bring their numbers down. It's a time of shot nerves and short tempers and a serious lack of sleep, but this time, it's different—less crazed and frantic. It's chaos, but orderly chaos. Mellie wonders if her staff have simply become used to the pace, or if they're resting easy in the knowledge that Mellie's going to win.

Mellie finds Olivia's dark head in the fray. She and Cyrus are near the front of the room, standing in front of the giant dry erase board and going over a rather impressive line graph someone's drawn.

"Good morning," she says, catching both their attentions.

"Ah, she-who-slays-the-dragons has awakened," says Cyrus. God help her, it actually sounds like a title now. "Didst thou sleep well, o slayer of beasts?"

"Are you finished?" Mellie asks him.

"Be happy he hasn't built a shrine in your honor," Olivia mutters, dragging the eraser over a segment of the line graph before redrawing it. Mellie notes that its incline is slightly steeper this time and she wonders if it's her approval rating. Olivia checks her watch. "Rundown in five!" she announces to the general room, and the flurry of activity halts long enough to acknowledge her statement.

It's just enough time for coffee. Mellie wanders into the kitchenette, squeezing past a group of volunteers who have taken up their work in the small nook. She pours herself a cup and then, on second thought, pours another before heading back out into the living room. Mellie passes the second mug to Olivia and takes up her usual space on the sofa. Cyrus, who has settled into the armchair, is giving her a look that Mellie would've almost called hurt had it been on anybody else's face.

"Why does Olivia get coffee and I don't?" Cyrus asks.

"Olivia went to bed like a good little girl," Mellie says sweetly.

She sips at her coffee and glances to her right to see Lucas on the couch next to her, laptop balanced on his knees and pen tucked behind his ear. He is looking between Mellie and Cyrus with growing confusion.

"You know what? I don't want to know," he says, shaking his head and going back to his computer. Mellie pats his shoulder maternally.

"Okay," Olivia says, setting her mug on the table in favor of her iPad. Around the room, the staffers send their last texts, wrap up their phone calls and give Olivia their attention as she starts.

Olivia begins, as always, with polling numbers. Mellie has taken to checking them herself every morning so she doesn't get any nasty surprises, which grow fewer and fewer as they edge closer to Super Tuesday. There is enough space between her scores and Sally's for Mellie to think that they now have a comfortable lead and while Mellie can breathe a little easier than she could a few weeks ago, she knows enough not to grow complacent.

Olivia shifts to the schedule for the day and Mellie lets her gaze wander around the room as she sips her coffee. She's has gotten to know every single face of her staffers over the course of the last two months, even if she doesn't remember all their names. Every now and again a new face will pop up in the fray, somebody that Olivia or Cyrus brought in personally. So far they've added two pollsters and another schedule coordinator to the mix.

This morning, Mellie's eyes find another new face in the room. Among the usual staff is a man who looks well into his middle age if the deep creases on his face are anything to go by. His slicked-back hair is light and clearly thinning. Unlike the rest of the staff, he is seated at the dining table having breakfast; he seems more occupied with shoveling forkfuls of eggs into his mouth rather than with the rundown. Mellie is certain she's seen him before but for the life of her, she can't remember where.

Mellie shoots Cyrus a quick look to see if he's noticed the new man's inattentiveness, but Cyrus is pulling a heavy stack of newspapers onto his lap and thumbing through them. She returns her attention to Olivia.

"…Amelia and Josh will pick the governor up at the airport, and then we've got the town hall meeting tonight at seven. We're still in game-time mode until tomorrow night," Olivia continues, propping her iPad against her stomach. "Let's not rest on our laurels just because our numbers are good. Man your stations, stay on top of everything. We're on the road to the RNC," she adds, and Mellie watches as a few of them sit up a little straighter. "Pedal to the metal, everyone. Meeting adjourned."

Staffers around her gather their effects and rise. Olivia sets her pad back on the table and trades it for the coffee mug again. "We'll be doing Q&A-style rounds with the podium after lunch to get you ready for the town hall. I'm going to get everyone off and running and then I'll be back up here; the three of us need to go over your speech for tomorrow night. It's still bare."

Mellie nods. Olivia herself has taken over Danielle's usual editing and speech-writing work. Mellie thinks the girl would be tickled pink to know that Olivia didn't trust anyone but her working on the speeches.

"There's time for breakfast," Olivia continues. "You should get something in you. It's going to be a long day, Senator."

A long day culminating in Fitz's return. Any lingering sense of victory she has over Sally Langston is being chased away with a quickness with the weight of the day now settling over her. Mellie sighs and rubs the back of her neck.

"Twenty minutes?" Mellie asks.

"Closer to thirty, probably. Eat something," Olivia urges, tucking her iPad back into its case and gathering her bag. Mellie watches Olivia follow the staffers out, considering a bagel to go with her coffee.

"So, the speech for tomorrow?" she asks Cyrus, who is sliding his reading glasses on.

"What's your hurry? Have breakfast like Liv said. While you're at it, go make a friend," he says with a jerk of his head towards the table where the new face in the room is still enjoying his breakfast.

Maybe not just another campaign volunteer. Cyrus gives Mellie a meaningful look and another nod as he crosses his legs.

Sighing, Mellie stands and makes her way towards the stranger. Cornflower blue eyes rise to meet hers when she's close enough.

"Millicent Grant," is the first thing he says, giving her an appraising look up and down. He removes the cloth napkin he stuffed into the collar of his shirt and stands, hand extended. "It's a real pleasure to meet you, ma'am. I've heard an awful lot about you." He has a thick, syrupy Southern drawl that makes Sally Langston sound positively Transatlantic.

"All positive I hope, Mister…?"

"Hollis Doyle," he replies with a crooked smile. "And as positive as things can be, when you hear 'em from our pal Cyrus."

Which is to say, not at all. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Cyrus disappearing behind a fresh edition of the _New York Times_. Casual though it may look, Mellie knows that he's scouring the paper for any mention of her campaign and a stack of other morning editions are waiting on the table in front of him. Mellie had asked him once why he did such a tedious thing himself rather than assign it to one of the many underlings.

"It's cathartic," was all he'd said. To this day, Mellie still doesn't know if it was sarcasm or not.

In front of her, Hollis Doyle has plopped gracelessly back into his chair and is choosing a slice of bacon from under a lidded tray. "Have you had breakfast, Mellie? I can call you Mellie, can't I?"

"Only if I can call you Hollis," Mellie returns, sweet as you please. She takes the chair opposite and runs his name over in her head again. Something clicks. "Hollis Doyle…of Doyle Energy?"

"One and the same," Hollis responds with a wink, popping a piece of bacon into his mouth.

Most definitely not another campaign staffer, then. In the corner, a newspaper rustles. "What brings you to Florida?"

"I live here," Hollis drawls before pausing. "Well, in the summer, anyway. I got houses all over this country, darlin'."

"How nice." And if he calls her _darlin'_ again, she'll burn down every single one of them.

"If you mean what's got me up at the ass-crack of dawn cleaning you outta bacon, then I'm lookin' at her." Hollis smiles toothlessly. "Madam President. Your campaign seems to be goin' good from what I can tell."

"We're holding our own," agrees Mellie.

Hollis chortles. "That's putting it mildly. Old Cyrus over there is on a gravy train with biscuit wheels. I figure if you're keepin' _him_ happy, then you must be doing somethin' right." Cyrus's newspaper rustles again—the only acknowledgement Hollis receives. He grunts and scoops up a buttery hunk of grits with the corner of a piece of toast. "And with him and that Pope girl in your corner, I'd say you're well on your way."

"So what is it that I can do for you, Hollis?" Mellie asks politely.

Hollis smirks like he knows something she doesn't. Mellie glances at Cyrus, wondering how much truth there is to that. "Now that _is_ the question, ain't it, Mellie? Or rather, what I can do for you is."

"And what can you do for me?"

The smirk widens. It does something unpleasant to Hollis's pockmarked face. "Anything you want."

Not quite the answer she had been expecting. "Anything?"

"Well, with enough power and enough money, you can get a body to do pretty much anything you want," replies Hollis.

Mellie goes over his words again before inclining her head. "I thought we were talking about what _I_ wanted, Hollis."

That gets him to laugh, loud and deep. "You're a pistol, Miss Mellie. You know that? You're a pistol and I like it."

Mellie merely smiles. It seems to be enough for Hollis, anyway, who smothers a burp with one hammy fist before tugging the napkin from his collar again and sitting back from the table. "Almost a halfway decent Southern breakfast. Most hotels don't know how to make 'em right." Hollis's eyes flick up. "You oughta come by the house sometime, you and your husband. The wife makes a mean barbeque brisket and it'd give us an opportunity to get to know each other a little better."

"That sounds wonderful, but we won't be in Florida for very long," Mellie responds, only half-apologetic.

"You'll be in Texas soon, though, won't you? And then good old Virginia for the convention, right?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Perfect, then, plenty of opportunities for you to come over for a beer." As he stands, he reaches out for her hand again. "Real pleasure to meet you, Mellie. You make sure to call me if you need anything, anything at all."

"Thank you," says Mellie, because it's the polite thing to say. Even if the person on the receiving end is a lobbyist.

Hollis gathers his jacket and an honest-to-god actual _cowboy_ _hat_, which he sets on his head and tips at her before making his way towards the door. "Later, Cyrus!"

"Who is Hollis Doyle and why is he here?" Mellie asks as soon as the man is out of the room.

Cyrus's dry voice wafts up from behind the newspaper. "President and CEO of Doyle Energy, but didn't you figure that one out on your own, Scooby? Beyond that, he's a Republican and he's got money. Ruminate."

"I have connections in DC that I could tap for endorsements if it's money you want and that's not what I meant, _Velma_."

"I guarantee you that Hollis has more money than all of them combined. Twice." Cyrus eyes her from over the top of his newspaper. "Unless you have Oprah on speed-dial. What did you mean?"

"I meant, who is he to _you_?"

Cyrus' expression flickers, and Mellie is almost too mature to feel triumphant. Almost. "You have reservations," he says.

"Asking your connection with a possible campaign donor does not equal having reservations. You're sidestepping. How do you know him?" comes Mellie's rapid-fire response.

"Prom, 1973," Cyrus deadpans. "There were streamers and a paper moon and a big, crystal punch bowl."

"Cyrus, I swear to _God_—"

"He's a friend."

"Like your friends who were interested in Fitz?"

"Hollis wishes," Cyrus mutters, turning another page. Mellie is beginning to think that this is payback for having dinner with Sally last night. "Alas, he's just the regular kind, motivated by your run-of-the-mill case of corporate greed. After Super Tuesday, we're going to need to start gathering big names to us, names with clout. People to help give the campaign some…_oomph_."

"Eloquent," Mellie responds.

"There's that reserve again. You've known him for all of…what, ten minutes? Fifteen? What possible problem could you have with Hollis?"

"Well, let's start with the fact that he's an asshole."

"So am I, but you agreed to work with me," Cyrus points out. _Under protest_, Mellie thinks viciously as he continues. "Most oil tycoons are. It's what helps them get rich. And as he's considering throwing a significant amount of said riches in our direction, might I suggest that you and the cowboy play nice?"

Mellie watches him trade the _Times_ for the _Washington Post_. "What does he want in return?" she asks, regarding Cyrus gravely.

Cyrus purses his lips. "I don't think he's decided yet."

"And you don't think this is just a touch dangerous, making a deal without knowing what's going to be demanded on our end?"

"Oh ye of little faith. I wouldn't do anything to jeopardize you or this campaign," Cyrus says solemnly. "Any dealing we might do with Hollis Doyle is still in the preliminary stages. Nothing's on the table yet; we're just testing the waters." His newspaper rustles as he raises it again, obscuring his face from Mellie. "Trust me."

He couldn't have asked her a harder question if he'd tried. Mellie sighs. "In the future, Cyrus: no lobbyists at breakfast."

"Done," Cyrus acquiesces, surprisingly. "Now be a dear and _eat_ something, would you, so Olivia doesn't kill us both?"

Mellie is halfway done with her plate of eggs when Olivia returns ten minutes later, and the three of them set about working on the drafts of Mellie's speech. The editing process is always mind-numbing, but with Olivia it takes nearly twice as long: she looks over every single word, every single sentence, makes Mellie read them aloud as if she were speaking them to a crowd. If Olivia isn't happy with the cadence or the language or the very sound itself, words, sentences, entire paragraphs get chopped with a quick stroke of the backspace button and they have to start fresh.

Mid-morning comes and goes and by noon, Olivia has given Mellie's speech the stamp of approval.

"Good," Cyrus says somewhat wearily, stretching his muscles. "There's just enough time for a quick lunch before we hit the podium downstairs."

"How quick?" Mellie says, feeling ravenous. She's glad Cyrus talked her into eating breakfast, meager though it was.

"Don't blink," Cyrus mutters, hauling himself to his feet. "Bathroom, and then we'll go down and see what kind of trouble the kids started without us."

Mellie watches Cyrus's retreating back for a few beats before glancing over at Olivia. She's still poring over her laptop, lips forming words as she reads over Mellie's speech a final time.

"What do you know about Hollis Doyle?" Mellie asks.

"Not so bad in small doses," replies Olivia. "Did he behave himself this morning?"

"If you call condescension behaving. Where the hell does Cyrus even get people like that?"

"You'd be surprised what you can dig up from within the bowels of Wall Street."

Mellie watches Olivia highlight a line, delete it, and type a new sentence in its place. " I…don't know that I want to get into bed with an oil tycoon," she admits. There are a lot of reasons why it's an unsavory idea, but Mellie's chief concern is that Hollis Doyle probably won't play fair—which is a dangerous staple of energy conglomerates. Mellie isn't sure that he's going to fit in well with the fiscal policy reforms she has in the pipes for the country when she's elected, and she certainly isn't prepared to compromise said reforms for the sake of a few campaign bucks.

That, and Hollis Doyle is an _asshole_.

"Then don't," Olivia says, as if it's the simplest thing in the world. "Remember: you have the power. You get to shop around for your donors; don't be afraid to deal. Look for mutually beneficial arrangements but keep in mind that they need you a lot more than you need them. Make sure you're getting something you want, too."

"Besides the money, you mean." Which Mellie understands. Politics, if nothing else, is a barter system. But she had always looked at it from the perspective of someone having to give something away, the one taking all the risks. It's impossible to run a campaign without accruing some debt along the line, but running and winning the Presidency gives Mellie elbow room she hadn't had running for Congress. It gives her the power to negotiate.

After a long moment of quiet consideration, Mellie speaks again. "Does Hollis Doyle have something we want?"

"He might," says Olivia, expression thoughtful. "He's a very powerful man and he has a lot of resources. He's good to have around."

"Hmm," is all Mellie says in response, contemplating the possibilities for a brief moment before looking up at Olivia. "Fitz won't like him."

Olivia's eyes flick up to hers. "Does that matter?" she asks in that inscrutable, neutral tone of voice.

Mellie lifts her chin. "No."

"Then we'll keep him around for the time being," Olivia declares, fingernails clicking the keyboard as she types. "If you decide later that he won't work out, then we'll get rid of him and move on to the next Daddy Warbucks."

"And I'm sure Cyrus will keep them rolling down the assembly line for my perusal."

"His supply isn't endless, but it is…extensive." Olivia's expression grows mischievous. "I might have a few of my own I can lend you."

"If your lobbyists are anything like Hollis Doyle, you can keep them," Mellie says just as Olivia's phone rings.

She stands and leaves Olivia to answer the call, stretching out her muscles and deciding that another cup of coffee is most definitely in order. This time, she pours one for Cyrus, too, and brings them all into the living room.

Cyrus has emerged from the bathroom by the time she's there and he watches her carry the mugs in, effortlessly holding all three in one hand. "You've waited some tables in the past, haven't you?"

"If you were a gentleman, you'd offer to help," Mellie replies flatly, handing him one of the mugs.

"But it's so much fun to see you be domestic. It's like watching monkeys use power tools."

Mellie is wrapping her tongue around a really scathing retort when the beep of Olivia's phone catches her ears.

"Change of plans," Olivia announces, lowering her Blackberry. "We're picking up the governor up ourselves."

Mellie blinks. "Why?"

"We really don't have the time for it, Liv," Cyrus warns.

"We're making the time," Olivia replies, gathering her blazer and her bag before looking to Mellie. "There's press at the airport."


	9. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Spot the West Wing reference! I hope everyone is enjoying the return of Scandal. Please drop me a review, and thank you for reading!

* * *

The ride to the airport is tense and silent. Well, nearly—Cyrus has tucked himself into a corner to text and mutter expletives at the screen. Next to him, Olivia is sitting ramrod straight, hands clasped in her lap. From the other end of the backseat, Mellie watches both of them and decides to take it upon herself to talk Cyrus back from the edge, as Olivia seems to have gone mute.

"Maybe it was a mistake," Mellie suggests, and her voice sounds hollow even to her own ears.

"And maybe there's a Santa Claus," Cyrus fires back, eyes not leaving the screen of his phone and Mellie reels her impatience in. He always gets moody when there's a fuck-up in the proceedings.

"These things happen, Cyrus," she tries instead.

"No they don't. Not to me, not to _my_ campaigns."

"Ah, well, with logic like that..."

"You know," Cyrus begins casually, "considering what happened the last time you and your husband were in a room together, you should be taking this a little more seriously. The two of you unscripted is a recipe for disaster. Hell, even when we do give you words to say, you both still manage to fuck it up somehow."

"We know how to act in public," Mellie retorts icily because seriously, to hell with attempting to be cordial to Cyrus fucking Beene some days.

"Could've fooled me," mutters Cyrus before cursing again. "_Goddamn_ Sally Langston."

And that gives Mellie pause. "…You think she's responsible for leaking this to the press?"

"Unless there was some other politician you've antagonized within the last twenty-four hours. Wait, what am I saying—this is _you_! The possibilities are practically endless!"

"Stop it, Cyrus," Olivia says sharply. "Who leaked the information is not the priority right now." Olivia shifts her gaze. "Mellie," she begins.

"I know," Mellie responds quickly with a solemn nod. "Perfection."

"I sent a text to Danielle but the plane was on its final approach and I couldn't get through when I tried to call. He's coming in blind. This is up to you."

"No pressure," Mellie says with a false smile. Olivia's eyes linger on her, but she doesn't say anything for the rest of the ride.

Orlando International is swarming with people and Mellie's heart drops into her stomach when they get inside. It hasn't hit her until just this moment how potentially bad this could be; she's been getting a lot of press coverage lately, to the point where Cyrus warned her that she would start to be recognized by average Americans wherever she went. The truth in his statement is evident as they move calmly but swiftly through the airport and Mellie catches more than one group of curious travelers casting their eyes upon her and her security detail.

By the time they reach the proper terminal, sweat has begun to bead in the small of Mellie's back. There is a myriad of ways that this could go wrong, and each one of them play on a constant, repeating loop in Mellie's head as her eyes find the entrance to Fitz's gate.

"This isn't happening," she hears Cyrus mutter in a tone that sounds absolutely dead.

"Calm down," Olivia replies at Mellie's elbow, eyes on her Blackberry.

"There are at least fifty reporters here and all you can say is _calm down_?" Cyrus demands, just this side of hysterical. "How did they even get in here? TSA finds any excuse to grope me when I fly but these bottom-feeding soulless sons of _bitches_—"

"Cyrus. Volume." Olivia still sounds remarkably calm as she lifts her phone to her ear.

Meanwhile, Cyrus has gone full meltdown. "—get to swarm like locusts in one of the busiest airports in the country? Can we not have a fucking _democracy_?" he snarls, so low and harsh that a group of children passing them by wearing Mickey Mouse ears actually flinch. Their parents drag them off, casting reproachful looks at a beet-red Cyrus.

Mellie turns her gaze back to the press. A smaller group has broken off of harassing the poor agent at the booth to set up TV camera tripods facing the massive glass windows that give a perfect view of the runway below.

Mellie licks her lips. She feels herself go pale. "What's the plan? What do we do?"

"We call in a bomb threat," Cyrus says definitively.

"We _calm down_," Olivia repeats, shooting a withering glare at Cyrus before turning away and speaking rapidly into her phone.

"Okay, okay, options," Cyrus mumbles, rubbing his forehead in contemplation. "We try to go through the gate and they ambush us; no way to sneak around them. Maybe a few questions before we get Fitz; you and him together is bad news, but you do well on your own…" He turns and looks her up and down, expression crumbling. "Oh for the love of God, you look like you've seen a _ghost_! We can't trot you out in front of them right now!"

Mellie swallows back the vague sensation of nausea. "I can do it."

"No you can't, not looking white as a sheet."

"Done!" Mellie and Cyrus look around to Olivia, who is lowering her phone with a triumphant flourish of her hand. "There's another way to get down to the runway," she announces, gaze shifting from Cyrus to Mellie. "You are going through the baggage loading bays; you can bypass the press entirely while Cyrus and I distract them. Hopefully, by the time they realize that you're already down there, you and the governor will be on your way to the car."

Mellie blinks. "How exactly did you…?"

"The head of security owes me a favor. Or twelve," replies Olivia, lips quirking into a smile.

Cyrus grips Olivia's shoulders. "I could kiss you."

"Oh god, please don't," Olivia gripes, wrinkling her nose and pushing Cyrus away. "Someone's on their way to escort the senator. Go start on that diversion."

"Right. Time to feed the dogs." Cyrus straightens and casts a critical eye on Mellie. "When you get Fitz, no dawdling. You beat feet to the car and if there are reporters anywhere in the vicinity, you damn well drive off. Olivia and I will find our own way back. Got it?"

"Got it," Mellie says with a nod, feeling only slightly more confident. She and Olivia watch as Cyrus straightens his jacket and stalks towards the gate. "Thank you," she murmurs, tilting her head towards Olivia. "That was quick thinking."

"And you thought there was someone better than me at this." Mellie catches Olivia's cheeky grin, but she can't summon up a smile of her own, not with her stomach still roiling with anxiety.

"Do you think Sally did this?" Mellie finds herself asking, twisting her fingers together in front of her.

Olivia looks around, takes in the airport and the press gathered at the gate. "No," she says.

Mellie's heart stutters. "No?"

"It's too sloppy," Olivia confirms with a nod, eyes still tracing the scene around her, seeing everything Mellie can't. "It's too sloppy and the chance for a satisfying pay-off is slim."

"But she did know Fitz was in North Carolina for the literacy benefit," Mellie admits, dread coloring her words. "If I made her angry enough…"

"She'd attack with the best weapons she has," Olivia finishes for her. "Sally's a desperate woman; she would be throwing everything she had at you, especially after last night. She has nothing, or else she would've used it instead."

"But she knows about Fitz and me."

"She herself might suspect, but she has no way to prove it. If she's behind this, then she's hoping to catch you off guard, that's all. That's all she _can_ do." Olivia tilts her head in Mellie's direction and gives her a quick once-over. "You okay?"

Mellie, eyes fixed to the gaggle of reporters that Cyrus is trying to wrangle into submission, gives a choked little laugh. "It's ridiculous, isn't it? Debates and speeches never make me nervous, but…"

"Hey." Mellie turns towards that voice and finds confident brown eyes meeting hers. "This is all just noise, remember?"

"Yes," says Mellie, lowering her eyes and swallowing. "Just noise."

"Say it again. Like you mean it, this time," Olivia commands, searching Mellie's face.

"Just noise," Mellie repeats, a little stronger.

Olivia gives her a satisfied nod. An important-looking TSA official is making his way towards her and Mellie. "Now go get your husband. Leave the rest to me and Cyrus."

* * *

By the time Mellie emerges from the maze-like underbelly of the airport, she's told that Fitz's plane has just been cleared for landing. She steps out into the bright late afternoon sunshine and looks not to the sky, but back towards the wall of glass windows at the terminal. The glare from the sun is too strong for Mellie to make out anything behind the glass, but she sends up a short prayer to whoever might be listening that Olivia and Cyrus are keeping the press distracted. If they see her already on the ground, they could rush the gate.

A low rumble reaches Mellie's ears and it grows into a deafening roar as a small, private jet comes gliding down, wheels hitting the runway with a terrible screech. Mellie watches the plane slow down the moment all the wheels are safely on the ground and she wills it to turn around and approach the gate as fast as humanly possible.

The cabin door opens, the stairs extend, and Fitz appears at the top. Mellie rolls her shoulders straight, lifts her chin and moves confidently towards the plane. Showtime.

She lets herself light up and smile when Fitz does, stepping off the last few stairs. She opens her arms as he approaches and pulls him into a hug.

"There's press here," she whispers swiftly into his ear, eyes catching sight of Danielle and a few other aides ambling off the plane over Fitz's shoulder.

"Hello to you, too," he says lightly, pulling back and pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I don't see anyone."

"They're inside. We're taking a back route to the car."

"Not up for giving them a show?" Fitz inquires with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. If he notices how pale she is, he doesn't say anything.

"Not today," she says with a false smile all her own as she takes him by the hand and leads him towards the TSA official.

They are both nothing but grins and little laughs as they make small talk on the walk back, façade still firmly in place until they are both safely inside the car.

"Is something wrong?" Danielle asks warily, watching Mellie as she presses a speed-dial button on her phone.

"There's press inside," Mellie responds, lifting the phone to her ear.

Olivia's voice comes after only one ring. "Did you make it?"

"We're in the car. No reporters," she surmises, surveying the world outside the car windows.

"Good. Cyrus and I will be there in five minutes. Sit tight." The line goes dead.

"We're avoiding the press?" Danielle inquires, face scrunching up with confusion. "But Governor Grant—"

"_Why_ are we avoiding the press?" Fitz interrupts.

"You know good and damn well why," Mellie retorts, tucking her phone back into her purse. "It's been three days since we've been together and Cyrus didn't think it was a good idea for us to deal with them without being prepped. And frankly, neither did I."

Fitz gives a disbelieving laugh. "Oh come on, what's the worst that could've happened? We've dealt with spontaneous crop-ups of reporters before and done fine."

"_Fine_ isn't going to cut it anymore, Fitz, and you know it," Mellie snaps. "We have to be—"

"Perfect?" he interjects. He rolls his eyes and leans back into his seat. "I missed you so much."

Christ, he hasn't been on the ground for ten _minutes_ and it's already starting. Out of the corner of her eye, Mellie sees Danielle exchange a look with another aide.

The door next to Mellie clicks and she starts, nerves shot for the day, but thankfully Cyrus appears as the door opens.

"Budge up," he grumbles and they all shimmy down to admit him and Olivia into the limo. The second the door is closed, Cyrus barks a quick, "Go!" to the driver, and they are off. "Jesus," he breathes, sagging back into the upholstery, "I _hate_ the press."

"What kinds of questions did they ask?" Mellie inquires.

"The usual," Olivia answers, patting Cyrus's knee as he pants for breath. "Suffice it to say Sally did not send them or the questions would've been very different."

Relief is short-lived, because that of course begs the question of who _did_ call them? Mellie sighs and smooths her hair back, wishing the day was already over.

"You thought Sally Langston called the press?" Fitz asks in a strange sort of tone that has Mellie arching an eyebrow. Again, there is movement in the corner of her eye; this time, Danielle and the other aides are shifting further down the seat. Away from Fitz and Mellie.

"She would've had very good reason, after last night," Mellie states slowly, turning her gaze back on Fitz. Something isn't right.

"What happened last night?"

"Your _wife_ happened last night," Cyrus mutters. "God, I need an aspirin. Or a .38."

"Reston's a possible candidate," says Olivia, glancing at Mellie. "He could've noticed you gaining momentum, pulling ahead. But how would he have known that the governor was in North Carolina?"

Cyrus waves a hand. "Yeah, well, look into it anyway. We're not going to make a habit of scurrying about and being one-upped by our competition and the moment I find out who did this, I'm going to—"

"I did it." Every single pair of eyes in the limo turn to Fitz, who raises his eyebrows. "I called the press."

Mellie's jaw works soundlessly. Cyrus sits up so stiffly that it looks like he's risen from the dead. "Come _again_?"

"I called the press," Fitz repeats, making a show of enunciating every syllable.

"You _what_?" Cyrus's voice is barely a whisper. Danielle and the aides shift backwards again, ducking their heads.

"You and Olivia are always complaining about the lack of photo ops with both of us together," Fitz explains nonchalantly, giving a half-shrug. "What better opportunity for good press than an airport reunion between a loving couple? Although I will say, skirting through utility corridors and baggage loading docks kind of ruins the—"

"_Stop talking_." On a normal day, Cyrus's glare could kill a small animal at fifty paces, but Mellie has never before seen a look like the one he's giving Fitz right now. She's so transfixed that she forgets to be angry at Fitz herself. "Do you realize what you could've done?"

"Cy—"

"Don't you _dare_ 'Cy' me, Fitzgerald. Olivia and I have been killing ourselves trying to dress up your—your mangled _abortion_ of a marriage and you nearly…you…" Cyrus's voice trails and he bites his lips, clenching his eyes closed.

Fitz scoffs. "Cyrus, calm down before you bust a blood vessel."

"We weren't going to pick you up," Olivia explains. "We were going to send staffers here."

Finally, comprehension dawns on Fitz. He looks a little taken aback. "It…didn't occur to me that you wouldn't meet us yourselves."

Cyrus makes a manic noise in his throat. "Of _course_ it didn't! Why would you think that we are unspeakably busy with the consuming task of trying to elect the first woman to the highest office in the land? Why would you think that with a town hall meeting tonight and a primary tomorrow that we should be doing things by the book and minding our Ps and Qs? Why would you think about contacting the people who actually _run_ this campaign to check and see if your delightful little PR _clusterfuck_ of an idea was smart, let alone sane?"

It is the first time Mellie has ever heard Cyrus raise his voice to Fitz. It isn't something that happens often, if her husband's flabbergasted expression is anything to go by.

"Okay, Cyrus," Fitz says after a long, tense moment, tone hard. "I've got it. I made a mistake."

Cyrus takes a deep, cleansing breath and lets it go in a whoosh, eyes drooping closed. "Okay," he begins, rubbing at his sinuses, "I am going to make this perfectly clear right here and right now because apparently, it wasn't before." He drops his hands and turns a steely glare on all the occupants of the car. "No one in this campaign does anything without running it by either me or Olivia first. From now on, nothing happens that we don't explicitly approve. That includes _you_," he says sharply, turning his eyes on Fitz just before shifting them to Mellie, "and you. Especially you. No events, no dinners, no—"

"Dragons?" Mellie interrupts.

Olivia's hand flies to her mouth to smother a laugh. Cyrus's cold eyes are trained on Mellie, but she sees some of the anger on his face fade to something closer to exasperation. Exasperation, Mellie can deal with.

"You are absolutely _excruciating_," he says at length, but without bite.

Mellie smirks and turns to look out of the window.

By the time they get back to the hotel, there's just enough time for Mellie to freshen up and change into the hand-selected outfit she is to wear for the town hall meeting. She fixes her hair and touches up her makeup before retreating to the closet to change. Fitz finishes before she does and starts unpacking his suitcase while he waits for her.

"So are you angry at me, too? For calling the press," Fitz clarifies, loudly enough for Mellie to hear him in the closet.

She isn't, not anymore. All's well that ends well, and she's too relieved to know who was responsible now to summon up anger. "I think Cyrus said enough for all of us."

"I wasn't sure I was going to make it out of the limo with my skin," he says conversationally as Mellie shrugs into a Republican-red dress. "Cyrus looked ready to flay me alive."

"We'll have to buy him a two pound bag of sunflower seeds," Mellie replies, zipping up the side of her dress and coming back into the room to choose her jewelry.

"You know, it truly scares me how well you and he work together. Olivia says you two had a really good mock debate—_good_ meaning everyone got out alive, anyway," he adds with a chuckle.

Mellie straightens from where she is leaning over her vanity and watches Fitz pull carefully folded shirts from his suitcase. "You spoke with Olivia while you were gone?"

"Only when I had a question Danielle couldn't answer. Which wasn't too often, believe it or not; Danielle's going to go far in politics. But Olivia called to check in a few times, yeah." He pauses. "She says you've—you've been doing really well."

Mellie wonders if he can connect that with the lack of his presence. Fitz is a lot of things, but routinely stupid certainly isn't one of them, this afternoon aside.

"We're going to take Florida," says Mellie. "There's a chance that Sally might drop out before Super Tuesday."

"That's good, isn't it? Have you given any more thought to choosing her as a running mate?"

Mellie considers the enraged look Sally had worn last night at dinner. She smiles. "Some. It's still early enough that I've got options. I imagine people are going to be clawing for the opportunity to run on a Presidential ticket."

"I might have a couple of names for you. If you're interested," he adds a bit hastily, and it sparks just a twinge of guilt in Mellie. Was she _that_ dismissive with him?

"I am," she says, letting some warmth seep into her words. She straightens and inspects herself in the vanity mirror. Feeling a touch whimsical, she turns and looks at Fitz expectantly. "How do I look?"

"Presidential," he says at length and Mellie thinks it's the nicest thing he's said to her in years.

* * *

The town hall meeting goes extraordinarily well and Mellie greets the morning of the Florida primary imbued with confidence. The numbers look good and have looked good for weeks and the events leading up to the closing of the polls only seem to boost her popularity. By the time the evening rolls around and they are all gathered in Cyrus's en-suite to watch the results come in, Mellie knows she's got it in the bag.

Olivia, however, seems a smidgen less certain. "Not a single bottle of champagne, not a single balloon, not a single _smile_ until they announce it," Olivia warns the room as she adds another tally to the numbers.

Mellie and Fitz, wearing identical frowns, turn and face Cyrus who shrugs and waves his hand errantly. "Political superstition. Don't tempt the wrath of the whatever from high atop the thing, you know."

Fitz laughs. "After the work you and Olivia have done on the campaign, I don't think we have any reason to worry."

"Senator Grant did most of the work," Olivia says loudly as she sweeps by to go examine statistics on one of the iMacs. Mellie watches her work, a smile broadening her mouth.

"Of course," Fitz amends, turning to look at her. "You've really done well, you know."

The praise loses something when it has to be prompted, but Mellie turns her smile to him anyway, too anxious and elated to be properly annoyed. Despite Olivia's reticence, the rest of the room seems to be just as confident as Mellie: pizza is being devoured while the staffers work and beers have already been cracked open. Lucas has the champagne chilling on ice in a tub in the corner and Danielle is blowing huge bubbles with her gum, reading glasses perched on her nose as she calls out the newest estimates.

"If we win this, it's all downhill through Super Tuesday," Cyrus says somewhere to Mellie's left. "Sally can't come back from this, not unless she absolutely trounces you in the debate. And she won't. So now we need to start looking at the Democrats. Reston and Mayweather are battling it out, but Reston's going to come out on top."

"He's going to be a difficult man to beat," says Fitz. "A military background and he's done some spectacular things for Maryland."

Cyrus sips at his beer. "Food for thought."

Mellie considers what she knows of Sam Reston. She doesn't think she's ever met him before, but she knows he and Fitz have spoken a few times. He's got a pretty sterling reputation as a politically-correct no-nonsense kind of man, a darling of the Democratic Party. He's their best and brightest, and certainly the best chance for taking the White House at the end of the year.

Her mind is already buzzing with angles and strategies to consider when Danielle leaps to her feet, remote control in hand. "Polls are closed! They're announcing!"

All movement in the room comes to a grinding halt as they turn their eyes on the television where Wolf Blitzer is looking down at a report. "We can now officially report that the Florida Primary has gone to junior Senator Mellie Grant, who has won a staggering seventy-nine percent of the vote—"

The rest of his words are washed away in a cacophony of elated cheers. Hands reach out for hers and to pull her into quick, tight embraces, and words of encouragement and congratulations are shouted until Mellie is almost numb from the blood and adrenaline singing in her veins.

"Thank you," is all she can muster when someone who suspiciously sounds like Lucas calls for her to make a speech. "Thank you all very much. I couldn't have done it without you."

And there is more truth in those words than Mellie thinks they'll ever understand.

The television is muted in favor of music. Somewhere across the room, Mellie hears the telltale pop of a bottle of champagne being uncorked.

"You okay?" Mellie glances to her right to find Olivia watching her, wearing a small, pleased little smile.

"I'm…stunned." And she is, even though somewhere in the back of her mind, Mellie knew she was going to win. "It's just…I don't know." Olivia turns to face her and waits, expression open and knowing. "Suddenly, everything just became real." Mellie laughs. "I'm not making any sense."

"You are," counters Olivia, nodding towards the TV. "Sally Langston is finished. Everything after this is a formality. You're going to the convention. You're going to be the head of the Republican Party. It's a whole new world."

"It is," she agrees softly. She looks at Olivia looking out at all the staffers with that small smile playing about her lips. Mellie licks her own and takes a deep breath. "If this thing goes the way we want it to, I want you to be my gatekeeper."

She watches as Olivia's expression changes, eyes lowering. "Senator Grant…"

"Don't you want to hear about the benefits package before you turn me down?" Olivia laughs and Mellie latches on to the sound. "Granted healthcare in this country is dismal, but I'm hoping to do something about that in the next few years or so. And vacation time might be pretty slim…"

"The benefits package sounds incredibly devoid of benefits thus far," Olivia returns with an arched eyebrow.

"Working with the most brilliant minds in the country, affecting change, making America a better place—all that jazz." Olivia shakes her head but seems unable to hide her smile. Mellie regards her warmly. "Be my gatekeeper."

"Cyrus is better suited for it."

"I would kill Cyrus within ten minutes. Provided he didn't beat me to it," Mellie adds. Besides, she has something else in mind for him.

"If you two would stop arguing for more than five seconds at a time, I think you'd realize how very alike you both are."

"I don't need another me. I need _you_," she says, and that gets Olivia to meet her gaze. "My mind moves faster when you're with me; I can think more clearly. Your perspective gives light to solutions I would've never considered myself. Your support has been the only thing holding this campaign together," she continues, realizing how very true that has been.

Olivia snorts and holds her elbows, as though uncomfortable with the praise. It is the first time that Mellie has ever seen Olivia looking anything other than certain and in control, and it's intriguing. "First female President, first female chief of staff—everyone told me you were an ambitious politician, but this is…"

"I know," Mellie drawls. "I'm sure the press will write that we have sleepovers in the Roosevelt Room and braid each other's hair over episodes of Grey's Anatomy."

"Senator Grant—"

"Mellie," she corrects quietly. "You are the most competent person involved in my campaign. You're smart, so much smarter than me. You're sharp and trustworthy and I _need_ you, Olivia. Be my chief of staff."

And thank god, Olivia looks as though she's considering it. She licks her lips and Mellie holds her breath. "Let me think it over."

Mellie nods; that is better than she was hoping for. That seems to be a theme with Olivia. "I daresay you've got some time to consider it. Provided we win."

"You'll win," Olivia says, and the sincerity in her voice is almost jarring and more than mere self-confidence.

Cyrus appears at Olivia's side, startling them both. "You two," he says with something that Mellie thinks just might be bordering on fondness, offering them each a champagne flute. "This is not business time. This is drunk-and-disorderly time."

"In front of the kids?" Mellie asks with a chuckle, motioning to the array of staffers.

"They're mature enough to handle it," Cyrus says as the three of them clink their glasses together and knock them back. He lowers his with a thoughtful expression. "Or maybe they aren't and three years down the line, one of them will write a tell-all about you."

"Thus ending my illustrious career."

Cyrus hums. "Doubt it. It'll be a tall order, going after the President." He clears his throat. "You've really done something good here, Mellie. I'm proud of you."

"Thank you, Cyrus," Mellie says before pausing. "For everything."

Olivia looks between them and bites her lips, fanning her eyes dramatically. "Oh god, stop. I'm going to cry."

The feign does its job and breaks the awkward tension. Cyrus laughs and puts an arm around each of their shoulders. "The three of us are going to run the world. Two queens and a prince."

"In the Machiavellian sense of the word," Olivia deadpans.

"Damn straight," Cyrus says before clearing his throat and raising his voice. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please!" The staffers in the room snap to Cyrus's command with a quickness and the conversation in the room dies, leaving only the steady, low drone of the newscasters explaining Mellie's victory and the smooth voice of Marvin Gaye from Danielle's iPod. Expectant eyes train themselves on Cyrus.

Mellie gives him a questioning look. He grins at her and then his fingers are wrapping around her wrist, raising her arm into the air. "I give you the next President of the United States of America!"

And before he is even finished speaking, the roar of cheers and applause fills Mellie's ears, somehow even louder than it had been when her name had been announced.

By midnight, Mellie has celebrated herself right into exhaustion. She stands up and declares that she's ready to collapse, much to the chagrin of her still-energetic staff.

"By all means, keep going," she says with a jubilant smile before bidding them all a goodnight and heading for the door, rubbing the back of her neck and fighting back a yawn.

Mellie kicks her heels off once she's in the safety of her bedroom and heaves a giant, satisfied sigh as she seats herself at the vanity to remove the pins from her immaculate bun.

She's shaking out her hair when she hears the door to her room click open. Fitz, tie undone and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, steps inside and finds her eyes in the vanity mirror.

"Tired?" he asks.

Mellie rolls her neck and groans, letting her hair fall about her shoulders. "It's been a long day. Having the day off tomorrow will be nice," she says, smiling as she remembers the elated response when Cyrus made the announcement a few hours ago.

"How are you going to spend it?"

Mellie unclasps the string of pearls around her neck and considers his question. "Maybe a trip to the shooting range? I miss hunting. I suppose I should get my fill of leisurely activities while I can," she adds with a little laugh. "I imagine I'm going to be very busy for the next four years or so."

Behind her, she hears Fitz make a sound. She catches his eyes in the mirror. He is looking at her very strangely. "What is it?"

"Nothing," he says quickly. "Just…"

Mellie turns to regard him properly, and the look in his eyes is foreign. Concern seeps into her words. "Fitz, what is it?"

He takes a short step into the room before stopping. "You're really doing this," he says. "You—you're really going to be the President."

The sheer _awe_ in his voice robs Mellie of breath. And then, Mellie realizes that the look in his eyes isn't foreign at all. It's just one she hasn't seen in a very, very long time.

There is nothing between them except silence for one heartbeat, two. And then, Fitz is crossing the room in three great strides and Mellie is rising from her chair and their lips are connecting and the taste of scotch is exploding on Mellie's tongue.

The sharpness of the wall hitting her back has Mellie gasping, breaking the kiss, and how the hell had he pushed her against the wall without her noticing? She doesn't have enough time to figure it out because Fitz is swooping down on her again, fingers and hands all over her face, her cheeks, her neck, down to her waist where he pulls impatiently at her blouse. Mellie's heart skips a beat when his bare fingers find hot, flushed skin stretched over her ribcage and _when_ was the last time that he touched her like this, kissed her and pulled her close and told her how beautiful he thought she was?

He's a little rougher with her than he has been in the past, but Mellie can't bring herself to care when he's kissing her so _desperately_, groaning in his throat, hands coming up to cup her face every time she tries to turn away, to look down where she's attempting to unknot his tie.

He nips at her lips and Mellie loses her breath. "Fitz—"

"Shh," he breathes, the small _whoosh_ of air dusting the corner of her mouth like a caress as he catches her hands in his. "Let me. Just…let me."

And maybe it's adrenaline and the rush of victory and the knowledge that maybe he believes in her, is proud of her, wants to see her succeed. Maybe it's the hot, fiery brand of his teeth against her neck and his impatient, nimble, _wonderful_ fingers skating over her stomach and up her back. Maybe it's the _sound_ he makes when she presses forward just enough to find something hot and hard against the soft flesh of her belly. Maybe it's none of those things at all; maybe it's the crushing, wretched loneliness that she's borne for countless days, months, years.

But she lets him.

Mellie lets him strip her, lets him push her onto the bed and crawl on top of her and take and take and _take_ until she is trembling and hot and flushed all over and ready to beg, to surrender her pride as long as he doesn't stop. She lets him fill her up with something more than his own body, something deeper and far more frightening: hope. Hope that this _thing_ between them that has somehow twisted and festered over the long years into something misshapen and ugly and not who they _are_, could somehow regress and untwist itself back into fondness, compassion, love.

Mellie is whimpering by the time Fitz finally drives home and god, how did she live without this for so long, how did they both forget just how _good_ it could be between them, how did she forget what he felt like, smelled like, looked like when he was hovering inches above her own face, beautiful blue irises reduced to nothing but thin rings outlining blown pupils? Mellie lets him take and take until they are both covered in sweat and Mellie's heart is galloping in her chest so hard and loud that she's sure he can feel it when he presses against her body.

It is over too soon. They both arch and writhe and twist as pleasure grips them and no, it _can't_ be over, not yet, not this quickly, not when she hasn't had a chance to remap his sinewy body with her own fingers, a chance to lick and taste and bite in all the places she somehow _still_ remembers he loves after all this time. Not when she hasn't had a chance to show him that underneath all the scorn and jealousy and miscommunication and frustration that she still cares about him, still wants him, still loves him, that they can _fix_ this.

But Fitz is pulling away and Mellie's eyes are drooping closed and exhaustion is pressing against her skull as though it were a tangible thing. Every single nerve ending on her body is tingling as she turns in the bed. She is surprised to feel Fitz's body move with hers. He molds himself up against her back and buries his mouth and nose into the back of her neck.

She feels one kiss, and then another against her skin. Her breath catches, and water begins to bead in the corner of her eyes and this is absolutely _ridiculous_, getting worked up over such a small, unconscious gesture of affection. She closes her eyes before the tears can properly form.

And maybe there wasn't enough time to do and say all the things that Mellie wants to do and say, but as she snuggles backwards into Fitz who rumbles with the contact, she thinks that maybe there'll be enough time tomorrow. Maybe they can start over.

Mellie reaches out one hand to flick the bedside lamp off. She settles back into the bed, back into _Fitz_, and closes her eyes.

He tucks his head into the side of her neck. "Sweet baby," he murmurs, lips brushing her skin. "Oh, sweet baby."

Mellie's eyes flash open.


End file.
